


My Dwimmerlaik

by Doleneth



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Edoras, Emyn Arnen, F/M, Humor, Ithilien, Minas Morgul, Osgiliath, Out of Character, Rohan, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-01
Updated: 2015-09-19
Packaged: 2018-04-02 08:54:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 37,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4054078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Doleneth/pseuds/Doleneth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She is Éowyn, shieldmaiden of Rohan. He is the Witch-king of Angmar, Lord of the Nazgûl. And between these deadly enemies, love has sprung forth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Night Flight

### Chapter 1

#### Night Flight

Standing on the stone steps of sleeping Meduseld, the east wind whipping her dress against her body, Éowyn thinks of the one she loves.

The rising moon sinks the valleys into deep shadows and sets the summits of the White Mountains in cold fire. But she is blind to that beauty. She can only see _him_. She sees him as she first saw him amidst the dust and the chaos of the battle. He looked so impressive in his mantle and his suit of armour. A heavy crown stressed the manly shape of his otherwise unseen brow.

Back then she didn’t have a name for the unfamiliar sensation that she felt in the pit of her stomach and set her knees to trembling. By rights it should have been fear, horror, disgust… Yet it was completely unlike any fear she had known before.

“No living man may hinder me!,” he proclaimed in a thundering voice. And then, as if ashamed, he added: “And no living woman likes me.”

That was enough. In that fleeting instant of vulnerability he let her see through all pretence. She knew, there and then, that all that ruthless-general-of-the-conquering-armies-of-Mordor schtick was just an act he put on to protect his sensitive true self.

_Poor thing_ , she thought to herself back then, and she is still thinking it now. He lived like that, alone and loveless, for untold centuries!

_I will be there for him. I will_ heal _him._

So she is out of doors tonight, remembering him. She likes to stand on the cold steps of Meduseld and pretend that the east wind brings her tidings about how much he loves her.

“Éowyn…”

“Éomer!” She turns around with a start. “Er, I mean… My Lord.” She offers him a quick curtsy. “I thought you had already retired for the night.”

“You’re thinking of him, aren’t you?”

“I…”

She doesn’t answer. But there is no need for it. Her eyes betray all the secrets of her heart. Her soul is naked under his glare.

“You _are_ thinking of him,” he spits out. “Here we are, mourning our late king and beloved kinsman. His body is still warm under the blooming _simbelmynë_. And you dream of embracing the one who brought his demise!”

“You don’t understand! Have you seen his eyes?”

“No, I haven’t. And neither have you. There is naught but a glimmer of death where his eyes should be.”

“But it’s the sweetest glimmer of death I have ever beheld. And there’s so much hurt in it.”

“Yes. It’s all the hurt he has caused _to other people_. Including us.”

“You don’t know him! You can’t judge him!”

“He is the _enemy_ , Éowyn! He killed our uncle! He is the lieutenant of the Dark Lord, who is even now plotting our ruin!”

“But he can _change_! No one has ever given him a chance to!”

“And you will?”

She can tell her brother’s patience is growing thin. If he only tried to _understand_ …

“I am the king of the Riddermark,” he says after a tense silence. “And the king forbids you to ever see him again.”

Éowyn wouldn’t feel any different had he physically assaulted her.

“But… You are so unfair!”

“If you ever leave Meduseld without my permission, your being the sister of the king shall not stay the king’s hand.”

And with these stern words, he returns to the open doorway. But before the gloom of the hall engulfs him, he stops and casts a final glance on her, a look of heavy sorrow upon his face. And he whispers:

“It’s for your own good.”

No creature in the night could be more miserable than Éowyn. Her tears glisten in the moonlight as they roll down her cheeks. And the east wind is weeping with her.

The east wind…

The wind is bringing something to her. A smell. A _stench_.

A stench she has learned to know. And to _cherish_. Her heart skips a beat the moment she notices it.

She turns her head just in time to watch the beast crawling heavily on its legs and wings around a corner of the Golden Hall. And _he_ is sitting atop its great bulk.

“’Sup, baby,” he greets her nonchalantly.

He is difficult to see in the shadows. Not only is his flesh invisible to human eyes, but he wears a coat made with the black hide of some animal. She can spot, however, the iron spikes protruding from the shoulders and the lapels.

But the most noticeable thing about him is the red burning tip of his smoke, coming and going like a firefly. His weed is of the kind that is grown in the Shire, but, rather than smoking it in a pipe as Halflings use to do, he rolls it in a piece of very thin paper. It is an ancient art, lost to the world. Éowyn finds him so confident whenever he talks through a trembling roll. She also likes it because it tells her where his lips are.

“Hi,” she greets him back, trying to hide her tears. “How long have you been there? Did you hear that?”

“I didn’t want your brother to see me. I don’t think he likes me.”

“He… He just doesn’t know you as well as I do. Gods! He can be so stubborn sometimes…”

“Was he mean to you? Just say the word, and he’ll be sorry.” He grinds one gauntlet against the other, as if cracking his incorporeal knuckles.

“No!” Her brother and her _dwimmerlaik_ are the two persons she loves the most in all the wide world. She can’t stand the idea of seeing them pitted against each other. _Why can’t they just get along?_ Everything would be so much easier that way.

“He means well. He really cares for me, in his own wrong-headed way. But… What are you doing here?”

“I was in the neighbourhood, and said to myself, ‘perhaps Wynnie will want go for a ride in the moonlight.’ You know, that kind of things women enjoy.”

_And you chose this night among all nights for it._

“The king has forbidden it,” she says, downcast.

“I see.” He puffs on his roll of weed. “And you are a good girl who always does as she’s told, are you?”

“What?”

“It’s okay.” His armour rattles under his coat as he shrugs. “I thought you’d fancy a nice time, you and me together. I see I was wrong. Honouring your king is obviously more important to you. Well, see you, I guess.”

“Wait!”

She looks into the doorway where his brother has disappeared a short while ago. She knows she will regret what she’s about to do. But she doesn’t stop herself from doing it.

A moment later she’s straddling the fell beast in front of her love, his arms wrapped around her delicate frame.

“Good girl,” he says. She can hear the grin in his tone.

The beast jumps into the air and flaps its big dark wings. Rather than falling to the ground, as Éowyn instintively thinks it will happen, it rises higher and higher, until the city is lost beneath them.

The experience of flying is nothing like Éowyn had imagined it. The wind is colder and harsher up high. Goosebumps cover her from head to toe, and her eyes start to tear up. Whether from the cruel wind or the emotion, Éowyn can not tell.

She’s so close to her _dwimmerlaik_ she could hear his heartbeat, feel the warmth radiating off his body. If his body radiated any warmth. If he had a hearbeat.

But it’s the _intimacy_ that counts.

It’s a lovely night for flying. There are no clouds overhead, and the stars shine brightly on the clear purple sky. She is marvelled to distinguish against the dark land the silvery outlines of rivers as she has only seen them on maps and books. She recognizes the Snowbourn, and the Entwash… And, far to the west, the Isen.

“The river Isen,” she muses. “That’s… That’s where my cousin Théodred…”

“Aww, c’mon, baby. That’s in the past.” He flicks away the stub of his weed-roll. “Don’t live in the past. It’s bad for your skin. You frown too much and grow old early.”

“I don’t wish to grow old early,” she replies hastily. “I wish to be young and beautiful.”

“You don’t need to wish. You _are_ young and beautiful.”

Éowyn feels on the air. Partly because she _is_ on the air. She should be afraid of plummeting down, yet she isn’t. She is safe in his arms…

No. Not just safe. There’s more than that. So much more. That mere word doesn’t even begin to describe it. His thinking her beautiful is no small part of it.

There’s a pang of guilt about her defying Éomer, but doing something forbidden is so exhilarating. She realizes she’s not a good girl, and she _relishes_ it. She’s so excited about it all she can barely breathe.

_Yes_ , she thinks. _This is how I want to feel. This is how I want to feel_ forever _._

_Forever_. There’s a big word, a word to ponder. Therein lies the rub, and at the same time the key to true happiness.

She might not live in the past, but she still has the _future_ to worry about. One day her hair will grow grey and her visage will be ridded with creases. Will he still find her beautiful when that time comes? And what about when…? No, she can’t bear thinking about it. She had never feared death before, but now that it carries the threat of separating her from her love, nothing could be more dreadful.

“Will I ever…?,” she starts.

“Yes, baby?”

“Will I ever be like you?”

His laughter sounds like a series of thunderclaps under the stars.

“Like me? You want to enter into the realm of shadow? You want to be a servant of the Ring?”

She says nothing. His words are hurtful. Many things he says are. So she choses not to push the issue and spoil this magical evening.

Her wishes, however, _do_ involve a ring.

A ring to bind his heart for all eternity.


	2. Under the Moon of Ithilien

### Chapter 2

#### Under the Moon of Ithilien

There is no east wind here. This _is_ the East. No wind blowing from that direction could breach the rampart of the Mountains of Shadow, which stand at the backs of the lovers. So the night is quiet, and only the occasional sounds of beasts and insects rise to where they are sitting.

Wild moonlit Ithilien is sprawled before them and beneath them. _Ithilien,_ she thinks. “The land of the moon. Splendidly appropriate for such a night.* She wonders if he has though of that as well. Perhaps that’s why he brought her here, and not just because Minas Morgul is pretty much around the corner.

_Who needs fancy furniture when you have this?_ She wouldn’t trade this rocky outcropping for the most exquisite feather pillow as long as he is beside her. She’s indulging in his closeness, yet not quite daring to touch him. A couple times in the past she attempted to cup his face; the results were dubious at best. Also, he finds it kind of corny.

“You know, all this ‘slave of the will of the Dark Lord’ thing is just temporary,” he’s saying. “I plan to be my own boss one day. Just wait and see.”

He has rolled a new smoke from his pouch and lit it with a shower of sparks struck with a flint from the blade of his Morgul-knife. The smouldering tip is a spectral glow in the dark, like a will-o’-the-wisp, only sexier. It gives her eyes something to focus on.

She tried the thing once. She had wanted him to think her as cool as he was. The experiment resulted in her hacking her lungs out while he rolled on the floor laughing. Once was enough.

She can tell he’s looking at her now. And not a good way.

“What are you looking at?,” he blurts out.

“Nothing.”

“It’s my hair, is it? You don’t like it?”

“No, no! It’s fine.” She knows what could happen if she failed to reassure him promptly. “It’s just…”

“It’s just what? Spit it out, woman!”

“Just… Well… A greased toupée floating in midair is not exactly my idea of…”

“Curse you!” He springs to his feet and towers over her. “I’m wearing this for _you_! You don’t think I can do anything right, do you?”

He makes a show of throwing the weed-roll to the grass. He could just as easily put it out with the tip of his boot, but he’s too legit to care about fire hazards.

“I’m sorry,” she mutters, lowering her eyes to escape his burning gaze.

She would cower under this rock if she could. The closest she manages is to contemplate her toes and pretend she’s not really there. She hears his frantic footfalls coming and going, crushing the grass and the pebbles.

_What was that?,_ she wonders. _Everything was fine just a moment ago!_

Finally he stops muttering to himself and sits down next to her again.

“I have an idea, baby,” he says after a while, as if nothing had just happened. “Right behind these mountains, in the Tower of Cirith Ungol, they keep a Dwarvish shirt made of _mithril_. You’ve never seen anything like that. They found it on the high pass. Apparently its last owner was eaten by the spider that lives there.”

“That’s horrible!”

“No, they washed the gory bits off. And I think it’d look great on you.”

“You think so?”

“I mean, if you’re not afraid of skimpy see-through clothes.”

“What?”

“Or spiders. Or Orcs.”

Her brow rises and her eyes blaze proudly in the face of the implicit challenge.

“I am not afraid of anything. I’m a shieldmaiden of Rohan.”

“Well, yeah. I meant to talk about that too.” She can’t quite see his eyes, but she can certainly feel his keen stare. “Especially about the ‘maiden’ part.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, you know. You and I have been dating for some time now…”

Even on his invisible face, his raunchy wink couldn’t be any more notorious.

“You must know,” she says stiffening, “that I have pledged my maidenhood to the man who takes me as his wedded wife.”

“Oh.” His disappointment doesn’t sound entirely spontaneous. “So you’re of that kind.”

“What kind?”

“You know what I’m talking about. The kind who dreams of a big white wedding and a house with a front garden and noisy children. And dogs. And a boring husband.”

“I am not!,” she protests. But inside she’s saying, _you would not be a_ boring _husband._

“Then will you–?,” he says. “C’mon, baby. Just see what you do to me.”

And, before Éowyn knows what’s going on, he’s on his feet again and drops his breeches in front of her face.

“I see nothing,” she says, astounded.

“And now you _mock_ me!”

“I didn’t–”

“ _Come not between the Nazgûl and his self-esteem!_ ”

“I’m sorr— What are you doing?”

His breeches are again fastened around his waist and he’s thumping heavily towards the grazing fell beast. Well, it isn’t exactly _grazing_ , but the goat on whose carcass it’s feasting probably was, so in an indirect way it may count as such.

Éowyn hurries after him. He’s already on the saddle and holding the reins when he catches up with him.

“Where are you going?”

“To the Dark Tower,” he answers matter-of-factly. “The guys said there’d be something good on the _palantír_ tonight.”

“And you’re leaving me here?”

“You can walk home.”

“Walk home? It’s a several days’ ride! And I don’t even have a horse! Or shoes!”

“Well, you should have thought of that _before_ you laughed at me, shouldn’t you?”

“But I never–”

There’s no one there to hear her words. The black steed is soaring on the putrid wind of its own wings and it soon passes from sight. No token is left behind of its earlier presence save an acrid whiff that is quickly vanishing.

It takes a while to sink in that he’s not joking.

Could Éowyn’s feelings at this time be described? It seems to her that the stars have grown colder and dimmer, and the face of the moon smirks cruelly. It had all started so wonderfully! Now she would feel relieved if the sky came crashing down on her.

_Is this why I turned away from my lord, my kin and my country? Is this my reward?_ Tears well up in her eyes, and now she knows that no wind is their cause.


	3. The Road to Osgiliath

### Chapter 3

#### The Road to Osgiliath

The war stalled after the Battle of the Pelennor Fields. None of the sides has dared to make any major move since. But eventually it dawned on the forces of Mordor that Gondor’s reinforcements weren’t to tarry forever, and they grew bold enough to take the eastern part of Osgiliath. Again. You might think they have nothing better to do than hold an old ruin.

Éowyn would give the dead city a wide berth if she could think of any other way across the Anduin. But will she be afraid of a bunch of ugly orcs? Not a shieldmaiden of Rohan! She’s unarmed, of course, but doesn’t concern herself about it. Orcs may be brutish, misshapen and rude, but they’re certainly not _stupid_. They’ll know better than to hinder the boss’s girl.

After that it’ll be several leagues to Minas Tirith. Luckily a patrol will find her and carry her the rest of the way thither. The hospitality of the newly returned King of Gondor won’t refuse her a couple days’ rest and a horse, perhaps even an escort, to ride to Edoras.

There she’ll have Éomer to deal with. But one problem at a time.

Meanwhile she’s in Ithilien, where there aren’t any horses she can use. So she has spent three chilling nights and two long, sweltering days picking her way along the winding road, eating only a few acorns and green berries, and sleeping at short intervals wherever exhaustion came over her. Travelling without shoes is not easy. Her delicate feet are black with grime and suffering the assault of stones and sticks she wouldn’t normally even notice. She never knew merely walking could be such an agony. She has come to learn why blades of grass are called that way.

_He’ll have a piece of my mind when I next see him,_ she mumbles. _He’d better give me a heartfelt apology. And the greatest foot rub ever._

As the dilapidated ancient capital comes into view in front of the westering gibbous moon, the idea occurs to Éowyn that it’d be wise to wave a white flag as she approaches. An arrow sent her way by an overzealous lookout wouldn’t be conducive to her plans.

She already has a flagstaff: the sturdy limb of oak she’s been using as a hiking pole. Any piece of white fabric tied to an end of it will do. But there isn’t any white fabric available to her other than the one she’s clad on. A shred from the hem of her dress might allow her to keep most of her modesty. But mud has rendered that part less than white.

So, when she reckons she’s close enough to be noticed, she resorts to the next best thing:

“Hello! Is anybody home? I’m Éowyn daughter of Éomund, of the land of Rohan! I come in peace! I request safe passage across the river!”

“Peace” and “safe passage” don’t appear to be written upon the sallow countenances of the orcs that spill out of the gates. Éowyn soon finds herself surrounded by the grotesque creatures, her arms and clothes clutched at by gnarled fingers.

_No! It wasn’t supposed to go this way!_

“Get your dirty paws off me!”

The orc closest to her sniffs and growls. “Our paws are _clean_.”

“Yeah. We had just washed them in the river to have some grub. Then _someone_ interrupted us.”

“Do you know who I am?,” Éowyn protests.

“Yes, we know who you are!,” snaps the Orcish captain, his yellowish eyes intent upon her. “You were yelling it like we’re deaf or something. You are the sister of the King of Rohan.”

“Your brother killed my brother,” says a particularly squat orc trooper, shedding an oily tear. “Poor Brogud! His wife is a widow now and his children will grow up fatherless.”

“My uncle Darûk was about to retire! That was due to be his last engagement,” cries a different orc. “Well, technically it was.”

“What about my friend Stu? He played a wicked flute. I miss his tunes around the campfire.”

“And you guys wonder why we hate you all so much?,” one of them shouts in the wincing face of Éowyn.

“Yeah! You people butcher us like we’re not even human!”

Now all the orcs are howling their grievances and pounding their scimitars and spears on their wooden shields as battle drums. Éowyn shrinks from them in fear and revulsion.

“Silence!” The barked order of the captain quiets the crew, yet most remain restless. “It will soon be day. We will take shelter in the city now. At sundown a detachment will set out for Mordor with the prisoner. She will make a royal ransom.”

_Ransom? Prisoner?_ Éowyn can’t believe her own ears. Orcs _are_ stupid after all.

“Just wait until my boyfriend hears about this!”

This doesn’t have the effect she was expecting. The captains laughs, and his laughter is a blood-curling deep bray.

“Your boyfriend should have taken you to Mordor himself long ago,” he says. “The Dark Lord is mightily cross at him.”

_Oh. Then he’s been protecting me!_ She feels so moved on the inside as she is jolted by the orcs on the outside.

She’s too befuddled to struggle as they manhandle her, or rather orchandle her, towards the city. There she’s chained to a free-standing pillar that once held a vaulted ceiling.

Hours pass. The sun rises and arcs through the sky as a very slow, shiny cannonball. Éowyn might think of this simile herself if she were in a proper frame of mind. And if she knew what a cannonball is. The is no room in her thoughts now for anything but her present sorry situation.

_How did this happen? Why am I here? I could be on my own bed right now if I were a good girl._

From where she is she can see the barges, moored to whatever pieces of masonry are still standing along the waterline. If she could reach them! Her chain won’t let her wander more than a few paces from the pillar.

If she could only send a message to Minas Tirith…!

There is, she gathers, but one way out of this. She will have to meekly let herself be taken to Mordor. The prospect brings chills to her flesh, but there is a possible upside to it. When she’s in Barad-dûr, her _dwimmerlaik_ will learn about her predicament and make everything better.

Hopefully. _If he intends to ever talk to me again._

She tries to get some sleep, but the ground is strewn with rubble, and the pangs of hunger won’t let her keep her eyes closed. She rejects the grub the orcs bring to her, which consists mostly of actual grubs. Some of them are still alive and moving about.

At long last the sun sinks behind the western horizon and the stars sparkle overhead. Éowyn doesn’t find this as romantic as she did some time ago, high above the world.

The night brings forth dark shadows, and some of the shadows are orcs. A small gang lurches towards her. The leading orc yanks her to her feet and forces a foul-tasting beverage down her throat. It burns inside her as she can’t help but swallow.

“If you won’t eat,” the orc says, “then at least you will _drink_!”

“Is that poison?,” she manages to ask in the lulls of a coughing fit.

“Poison? Why would we give a prisoner poison? If we were done with you, we’d give you swift _steel_.”

Whatever it is the orcs made her drink, it has given her a great vigour to face the hard trek. Still, she’s having no end of trouble just to keep up with her captors. They’re constantly pulling at the chain, nearly dragging her along the trail.

The city and the river are soon lost behind a wall of wild plant growth. Each step takes Éowyn farther away from safety and closer to dark torments for her body and her soul.

And, perhaps, to her love.


	4. Into the Wild

### Chapter 4

#### Into the Wild

The night seems to stretch eternal. It eventually, however, comes to an end.

And its end comes long before dawn. The orcs have run into a glade and decided it’s a good place to camp for the day. Éowyn’s chain has been coiled around the trunk of an ash tree and secured into place with a heavy padlock.

The remainder of the orcs haven’t remained idle. They have been quick to gather kindling and get a fire going.

Éowyn’s situation isn’t any better than before, but she’s thankful for the rest. Her feet feel all mangled; she can barely believe her eyes when they tell her they still hold their original shape. Some spots are caked with her own dry blood, mingled with the general coat of mud and leaves.

Poor Éowyn! Tears stream down her pale cheeks. _Why must love hurt so much?_ Her thoughts fly to her dear _dwimmerlaik_. _Oh! I wish you were here…_

Not far from her, oblivious to her plight, the orcs are drinking and laughing around the fire, as though they were engaged in revelry rather than on an assignment from their commander. And a music is coming thence. If such sound can indeed be called a music. One of the orcs holds some manner of instrument to his slavering lips and plays a horrendous tune, a cacophony clearly intended for ears other than human. There is no beauty in it; it’s as much a mockery of the very notion of melody as Orcs themselves are of the fair Elves that dwell in mountain valleys and forests. It does nothing but to add to Éowyn’s many sorrows. Even the trees seem to shiver and weep in the face of this acoustic onslaught.

An orc’s gruff voice rises to drown the dire notes.

“Dude, you suck at that. Leave that instrument alone already!”

“Do you need to be such an insensitive twit? I’m trying to keep Stu alive here.”

“Stu is _dead_. And his flute sounds like it is on its death throes itself.”

“Yeah!,” a third orc joins the conversation. “You better put that thing away or else I’ll stick it where the stars don’t shine!”

“I’ll wager it’d sound better that way.”

“You will eat those words!,” the flute player says.

It is he who ends up doing the eating. Not of any words, but of an arrow. It lodges itself into the back of his throat with a _thud_ that takes everyone by surprise. Especially him, it could be argued.

Orcs are undisciplined, and their reaction is to leap to their feet, draw their weapons and run aimlessly around the camp, flailing and howling as wild animals. None of them thinks of checking on the prisoner. They all stare into the woods with terror-stricken eyes, trying to pierce the darkness and guess at the source of this attack, as they are aware that stray free-flying arrows don’t occur naturally in Ithilien.

Their shrieking is meant to scare foes away, but it only makes them easier targets. Soon afterwards it is _they_ who are pierced.

Silence falls upon the glade. Only the hoots and calls of what sounds like very big birds can be heard distinctly.

_Those are strange birds,_ Éowyn thinks as she watches them step into the circle of ruddy light. They have no feathers except for those stuck to the arrows in their quivers and the ones they try to recover from the dead orcs. Their faces are hidden under hooded cloaks.

One of them crouches silently close to her and examines her chain. A few strokes of a hatchet do away with it, and then Éowyn is free.

Free!

Free, at any rate, to stand up, stagger, and fall into the arms of the leader.

“Oops! I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” he answers, and his voice is as sweet to her ears as the Orcish music was appalling. As he pulls back his hood, Éowyn feels her breath taken from her body.

The captain’s raven hair cascades in rivulets on his shoulders and shines on the firelight with crimson liquid reflections, as though it had been chiseled from a piece of jet. The shadow of a beard darkens his stony yet kind features. He looks like a statue of a hero of old given colour and life by erotic magic.

And his eyes… Oh, gods, _his eyes_.

His eyes are fixed on her with an intensity Éowyn didn’t know was possible.

She feels his strong muscles flexed under his garments and doesn’t trust herself not to stagger again. She holds onto his arms, trying to not sigh too conspicuously. Her fingers wander as if with a mind of their own, exploring the white tree embroidered on his jerkin.

“I know who you are,” she finds in herself to say. “You are the Steward of Gondor.”

“That I am,” he answers, helping her gently to her feet. “And I am also the Prince of Ithilien. And the Lord of Emyn Arnen as well.” A deep bow accompanies his words. “Faramir son of Denethor, at your service.”

“Wow. You’re really a prince? And a lord?”

“Such are the titles as King Elessar has seen fit to bestow upon me.” There’s in his voice a reticence to sound too boastful that she finds endearing. “And you are…?”

“I’m so dirty.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Just look at me. I’m all covered up in dirt and mud and whatever.” She feels suddenly inadequate about her state in such a dignified presence. “And I haven’t had a meal in ages. And– Ouch! My feet are killing me!” She tries to laught it all off, blushing. “I don’t look like the kind of girl you’d take home to your family, do I?”

“That I understood. Still, I would take you to _my_ home.”

“Would you?” She seems to remember he doesn’t have a _family_ anymore, but doesn’t mention it.

“Certainly. I will be honoured to have you as a guest at Emyn Arnen until such time as you are ready to return to your own home. Can you walk?”

“Yes!”

“Are you sure? You just said your feet–”

“Oh, I’m fine. It’s nothing really. You know how we women are. Always complaining and overreacting to little things.”

“Being captured by the enemy is a little thing?”

“You’re not keeping a lady waiting on purpose, are you?”

“Of course not! I apologise. If it pleases you to follow me…”

The way is hard and tiring, as Rangers favour trackless roads across the wild. Still, she makes an effort to keep up with Faramir’s stride. Every now and then she hits a snag, real or imagined, and lets him hold her hand.

She’s given some rations, and consumes them trying to not look unfashionably ravenous. The food is only hard cheese and stale bread, yet it tastes better than anything Éowyn has ever had. Partly because she’s so hungry and partly because _he_ has touched it.

She still has a moment’s thought for her _dwimmerlaik_ , but quickly dismisses it without any feeling of guilt.

_It’s all his damned fault,_ she says to herself. *He’s not good for me. I should have listened to Éomer."

But then again, if she had listened to Éomer, she wouldn’t be now Prince Faramir’s guest.

_Until such time,_ he has said, _as you are ready to return to your own home._

The question comes espontaneously to her mind as she strives to walk next to him under the stars and the setting moon.

_What if I am_ never _ready?_


	5. The Gathering of the Nine

### Chapter 5

#### The Gathering of the Nine

It was a dark and stormy Minas Morgul. Darkness was lent by night itself, as the full moon had not yet risen above the valley. The lamentations of wretched creatures as they wandered to and fro through the halls in unnamable errands provided a stylish substitute for thunder. And as for rain, the place was damp enough to render it superfluous.

Storm without stormy weather. Only in the Tower of Sorcery.

The Witch-king of Angmar, foremost of the Ringwraiths that served the Dark Lord Sauron, liked the ambiance. _I will have to bring Éowyn here,_ he thought. _As soon as she is willing to put out._

He briskly traversed one of the many identical courtyards towards a troll standing guard before a doorway. The sentinel’s colossal knuckles nearly brushed the flagstones underfoot, and his hand held one of the largest iron maces ever spewed forth by the foundries of Mordor.

The Nazgûl stopped in front of the troll and studied for a few instants his imposing frame. At length he spoke:

“Hello, Corey. Nice outfit. Is it new?”

“Thank you, boss sir. Yes, it is. The hauberk was on sale at half the price. Say, how are you this fine evening?”

“I’m doing good, thanks. I tried to catch the guys at the Dark Tower the other day, but they had already left. Are they here?”

“They’re upstairs, boss sir.”

“Thank you, Corey.” He tipped the troll and stepped through the door.

The winding stairs, already gloomy, darkened even more upon his ascent, for light itself was afraid to come near a Nazgûl. In a chamber high in the tower, a group of shadowy figures were assembled around a table.

And one of them was shuffling a deck of cards.

The Nazgûl needed no light to see by, so there was none in the room but the faint glow cast by Vather’s weed-roll. Only Vather among the remaining eight he had contrived to get into smoking. Which was fairly frustrating, because Vather was an idiot.

Now the weed-roll was rising in the air between its owner’s immaterial fingers in a gesture to bid him welcome.

“Hey, Eric!”

“’Sup.” His spiked coat landed on a couch. “Hey, guys.”

“Well, well.” Kham didn’t lift his gaze from the deck. “Will you look at what the spider dragged in.”

“Did you miss me, ladies?” He took the one vacant seat and dropped a few coins on the table. “Pass some chips, Hoar.”

“I’m Ren,” the keeper of the chip case replied as he granted the request. “He is Hoar.”

“My parents gave me the name _Hôarmûrath_. I would appreciate it if you could refrain from any witty shortenings of same.”

“Whatever you say, Hoar.”

“Fancy having you here, Eric,” said Ji, who was sitting next to him. “We were starting to think we had lost you.”

“Yeah.” Vather blew smoke. “That horse girl is keeping you busy, isn’t she?”

“Her name is _Éowyn_.”

“Oh, so she got a name?,” Kham remarked absent-mindedly as he dealt. “Last one didn’t.”

“Not my fault Cave-trolls don’t have names, is it? She _did_ have some heavy-duty hips, though.”

Addie’s fingers were drumming impatiently as a hint he didn’t care about the present course of conversation, in typical Addie fashion. “Her name was _Crystal_.”

“Really? How do you know that?”

“She happened to be my friend. She was always complaining you never listened to her.”

“You were friends with _my_ girl?” If looks were enchanted blades of Westernesse, Addie would have been no longer seen walking upon the face of the earth.

“Hooo, boy.” Vather drowned the stub of his weed-roll in the dregs of his tankard.

“It’s okay,” Ji snickered. “It’s only Addie.”

“She was crushed when you dumped her,” Addie went on undaunted. “That was cold, man.”

“Well…” The offended party turned now defensive. Addie was generally so earnest it was hard to really get cross at him. “You can’t expect something with a two-ton troll to be serious, can you?”

“Man, I don’t know,” Ren said. “That sounds kinda racist.”

“ _Kind of_ racist,” Hoar said hoarsely.

“Racist? I’m not racist!” The aggrieved Nazgûl Lord slammed his gauntlet on the table as if to prove through the means of violent racket the veracity of his assertion. “I’m most definitely _not_ racist! Some of my best friends are Black Númenóreans. Isn’t that right, Hilly?”

“I’m Dwar. He is Hilly.”

The real Hilly straightened his back. “And I’m not, you know, literally black.”

“You aren’t?”

“Hello! Númenórean? Superior race? Remember?”

“Not that I would care. I don’t even see colour.” He looked around, seeking approval. “Or shapes. Or light. I only see shadowy figures, mostly.”

Kham leaned forward in his usual sedate way. “People call us Black Riders, black this, black that… Doesn’t mean we’re _actually_ black.”

“Ji is,” Ren said.

“You’re black?” The Witch-king’s amazed stare shot to his table neighbour. “You never mentioned it!” His words were followed by a loud scraping noise as his seat was dragged a few inches in the opposite direction.

“Hey! You just said you weren’t racist,” Ji remonstrated.

“I’m not.” There was some more scraping and the breach between both of them widened further.

The gleam that marked Ji’s eyes shrinked as with a deep scowl. “I know what this is about.”

“You do?”

“It’s plain old prejudice. Just because I’m a Southron I’m suddenly… I don’t know… Some kind of scary monster, right?”

The abrupt silence as everyone digested this seemed to last for longer than it actually did. It was Ren who broke it:

“You _are_ a scary monster. You’re a Ringwraith.”

“Yes, but that’s only because I took one of the Rings of Power.”

“Right,” Hilly agreed. There was a hint of cynicism about his voice. “But _why_ did you take it? Huh?”

“The same reason _you_ took yours. Because it made me feel _powerful_.”

“Yeah,” Dwar nodded. “Chicks dig power.”

“Eric knows about that. Don’t you, Eric?”

“Huh?”

“That chick you’re seeing,” Kham said. “Erin.”

“Éowyn.”

“Whatever. She likes strong powerful men, doesn’t she? The take-charge type?”

“I bet she does,” Vather said. “Has she given you any… You know… Any token of her love?”

Hilly chuckled. “She’d better. Eric won’t be getting any action for a good while now.”

“What are you talking about?” The first of the Nazgûl was getting the awkward sensation he was the last to get wind of things. Not a good place for a military commander to be, let alone a ringleader. _If they’ve been hiding something to laugh at me…_

“Haven’t you had the news?,” Hoar said. “The Orcs seized your girl in Osgiliath. They’re bearing her to Mordor even as we speak.”

“Wha–? No, I hadn–”

Words kept getting stuck in his throat. _What have I done?_ Suddenly he saw her as he had left her at the foot of the mountains. Alone, barefooted, and far from home.

_Good Morgoth. She must hate me._ A cold hand gripped his windpipe.

Of course, he thought, he hadn’t done anything _conceptually_ wrong. She needed to be taught her proper place, lest she grew haughty. That was the way of the world. Still, the involvement of Orcs might be a sign that he had overdone it in the execution.

“I’ll be right back.”

“Where are you going? You just got here!”

“I know. Watch my cards, Kham. I’ve got something to see to.”

He swooped down the stairs by two and by three at a time. So what if he stumbled and cracked his skull open? More important things were at stake!

He ran past a bewildered Corey, almost tripping over his mace, and plunged forward towards the sheds of the fell beasts.

No one was going to lay a finger on _his_ Éowyn.


	6. The Prince’s Guest

### Chapter 6

#### The Prince’s Guest

Civilisation! Prince Faramir’s abode at Emyn Arnen is furnished with all the perks of city life: a roof, bed linens, fresh food, clean clothes, servants… And hot water! A maid pours a couple pails of the stuff into a wooden tub, helps Éowyn rub all the nastiness off her skin, and then brushes her long golden hair. Now Éowyn looks more like someone worthy of being a prince’s guest.

_Shoes!_ She is beside herself at the sight, even though it’s only a pair of old wooden clogs, as plain and humble as the dress she has been given to wear. Dress and shoes all probably belong to the maid who’s tending to her. But brocade lace and slippers made of silver wouldn’t make Éowyn nearly as happy as this unassuming atire does, and her heart sings at what it implies: that there is _not_ a Mrs. Faramir.

But the Prince himself is nowhere to be found. In the morning, a grizzled manservant brings her his master’s apologies. He laments, the old man says, he can’t be present to entertain her as he ought to. Osgiliath is too close for comfort to Emyn Arnen, and the intervening miles must be kept under constant vigilance. He will be honoured, however, to dine with her in the evening.

The day seems to Éowyn unaccountably longer than any of the previous ones. She spends it chatting with Meril, the maid, and acquainting herself with every nook and cranny of the residence as far as propriety allows her, dreaming this might one day be her own home.

Sundown sends her heart into a mad gallop and sets her nerves on edge. She can scarce keep still while Meril fixes her hair into an elaborate pattern of braids. Then she ditches her drab grey dress and substitutes a green one with yellow trim and golden ribbons. She no longer looks like a peasant girl going to the market; she rather looks now like a peasant girl going to a party. But she doesn’t mind much. _Have the children of Eorl ever accounted to more than glorified stable boys?_ She doesn’t feel particularly more suitable for princely company now that when she was all stained and dishevelled, and finally surrenders to the fact that she can’t do much about it. _He’s not expecting someone who lives under a thatched roof to look any better than this, right? Even if the owner of said thatched roof bears formally the title of King._ She sighs in front of the looking-glass. _I wish I could look like a real princess. Well, this will have to do._ She turns around and comes down the stairs.

A lush table service has been set up in the Great Hall. She is nearly overpowered by the subtle fumes streaming from a constellation of candles. And she _is_ overpowered by the sight of Prince Faramir standing next to the table.

_Wow. He cleans up nicely._

Silk and velvet are certainly more becoming of a prince of Gondor than the rangering leather and roughspun wool were. The White Tree is picked out with tiny shimmering crystals on his doublet. His face is shaven clean, and his dark hair, previously so wild and unruly, has been tamed and plastered with scented oils onto his skull.

But no amount of grooming can conceal the native roughness of his countenance and his carriage. The high lord and the ranger are not at odds in Faramir. Strength and refinement commingle harmoniously about his person, as though they belonged together. His hand is as fit to grip a sword as it is to hold the dainty fingers of a woman.

And it is _her_ fingers he’s holding now, and brushing his lips ever so gently against her knuckles, sending a wave of shivering up her arm and her full body.

“You look radiant, my lady,” he says. His voice is a caress to her ears.

“Thank you, my lord.” She assays an awkward curtsy. “You are very elegant yourself.”

_Only ‘elegant’? That was lame. What will he think?_

But he seems to think nothing of it. A smile softens the ruggedness of his features.

“Please, call me Faramir.”

She lowers her gaze, daring not to look into his eyes, intense as ever. “It will be my pleasure, if you condescend to call me Éowyn. Or Wynnie, as my friends do.”

_Ugh. Did I just say ‘friends’?_ She winces on the inside and wishes to kick herself.

“As you wish,” he says warmly. “Éowyn.”

He holds her chair as she sits down and then glides to the opposite end of the long table. A cadre of servants bring in assorted delicacies on silver trays. Roasted boar. Swan served in its own plumage. Honeyed figs and raisins. Éowyn can’t believe what she’s seeing. And smelling. Barely one day ago she would have counted herself fortunate to have a pouch of breadcrumbs, and now a feast is being laid out before her eyes! A cup-bearer fills both cups from a flagon and stands aside.

“Why, Lord Faramir,” she says, “you know how to dine and wine a lady.”

“I propose a toast.” He holds his cup aloft. “To the friends of Gondor. And to the beauty of their women.”

Éowyn forgets about everything. About her dress, her shoes, her anxiety, her past hardships. She can’t even bring herself to drink. She only desires this moment to last until the end of the world. And then some.

“You must be concerned about your brother, I surmise,” Faramir says, lowering his cup.

“Huh? Oh! My brother. Sure.” Truth be told, she _was_ thinking of her brother. Specifically, of how he could never look half as regal as Faramir did. And he is a _king_.

“I can reassure you in this matter. I pray you put your concerns to rest. A messenger has been dispatched to Edoras in the morning to inform King Éomer you are safe under my protection.”

“A messenger?” She frowns. “How did he go about crossing the Anduin?”

“We have a ferry down the river. We have been meaning to rebuild the bridge at Osgiliath, but that area is fairly… shall we say _unstable_ … at the moment.”

_A ferry. Of course. I should have thought of that. I should have known._ But once again, if she had known… _Ignorance is bliss._

“Would it be too presumptuous on my part,” Faramir is saying, “to inquire as to why a highborn lady of the Riddermark was wandering lost in Ithilien at night?”

“Not all those who wander are lost,” she answers quizzically.

“You weren’t lost, then?”

“Oh, it’s a very long story.” She gestures dismissively. “Far less interesting, I am sure, than the story about why the Lord of Emyn Arnen goes out rangering himself.”

_Yes. That’s the ticket. Get him talking about himself. Men love that._

The glow in Faramir’s face conveys to her that she hit a bullseye on his vanity.

“Old habits die hard,” he says simply. “And when my spies told me the enemy had taken a fair lady prisoner, I couldn’t do any less than lead the rescue party myself.”

“You are so gallant, my lo– Faramir. And so valiant to brave a woodland overrun by savage Orcs!”

“Your words are too kind. They make it sound as a deed greater than I can take credit for. It’s not so bad around these places ever since the Battle.” The Battle, of course, being the Battle of the Pelennor Fields. The Valar willing, never such a fight will take place again upon the Middle-earth. “Still, it would be false modesty on my part to claim it’s an easy matter. The forces of Mordor still come and go at their leisure as though they owned this land. They are so bold as to wander off the Orc-corridor, as your captors did.”

“Orc-corridor?”

“I apologise. I ought to explain myself. ‘The Orc-corridor’ is what we call a narrow swath of land on the north bank of the Morgulduin, along the road between Osgiliath and Minas Morgul. There the enemy is likelier to be found. We don’t know why your captors were marching north to the Black Gate, rather than straight east through the mountain passes.”

_Because they tought_ he _might be at Minas Morgul, where he could espy them and frustrate their plans,_ Éowyn thinks.

She catches herself too late, and her inner wincing comes too close to physically screw her face. She’s thinking about _him_. She shouldn’t. She really shouldn’t.

She shouldn’t be thinking about how gracefully and surely he swings his spiked mace. About how every enemy head he caves in is such a desperate cry for help.

_I was supposed to be there for him. And where am I? Why, I’m having dinner and flirting with someone I just met! I’m the worst girlfriend in the world._

She tries to return to the present, to Faramir. But the evening is already marred, and every morsel Éowyn swallows tastes like regret.


	7. The Fires of Passion

### Chapter 7

#### The Fires of Passion

White is Éowyn’s nightshirt; the wind blows ripples on it as on the surface a calm sea. White is her skin draped by the freshly brushed hair beneath the white moon.

Her feet are still sore. The cool stone of the veranda brings them some measure of relief. But nothing can soothe the ache nested deep inside her chest.

_Why must life put us through these tests? Why must happiness be so elusive?_

The mild night breeze, warm and perfumed with sage, caresses her bare neck and her shoulders, and moonlight kisses her fair skin. She closes her eyes and dreams of Faramir close to her.

_He is himself a dream. He is dreaming personified._ Despite her humble green dress and humbler wooden shoes, he has lavished on her such luxuries and attentions as might be afforded to an Elven maiden in a gown of woven starlight. Queen Arwen Undómiel, they say, is the most beautiful woman in the world. During the dinner, Éowyn felt at times she could give Queen Arwen a run for her money.

And before she went upstairs to retire for the night, he kissed her hand. Not a mere courtly show of lips near knuckles, but a _real_ kiss. Her hand still burns and itches, and she holds it close to her bosom as she relives the moment over and over in her mind.

And then, as wind shifting before a storm, her thoughts turn to her _dwimmerlaik_.

True, he left her to fend by herself in a wild land over a petty squabble. But can she really blame him? He has spent such a preternaturally long time away from human society, is it any wonder he’s at a loss as to how to act? He has forgotten about the warmth of a kiss, the touch of a gentle hand… He has known only darkness, hate, and the unwavering fiery stare of the Lidless Eye.

What would become of him if she were to leave him? His heart would blacken and shrivel up, his evil ways would get a definite hold of him, and he would never trust anyone again. Whereas, with her love, she may still bring him over to the light and colour of the land of the living. _Love is patient,_ she tells herself. _Love never gives up._ And can she forget all he has given her? Were the elation, the dizziness, the maelstrom of raw and diverse sensations, worth nothing at all? Up above the world in the starry night, it seemed to her she could span the horizon with arms outstretched and count herself queen of an infinite space.

_Why must love be so hard?_

Sleepwalking she lets go of the marble bannister and paces back to her bedchamber. And in the gloom of the chamber, which is no darker than the gloom of her own soul, she collapses on the bed and weeps. The silken pillow is made heavier with her tears.

But her sobs are not the only sound in the night. Footsteps are coming from the veranda.

Footsteps, and also the _stench_.

A tall shadow stands in the curtained archway, blotting out the stars.

“You are here, baby!,” the shadow cries out with palpable relief. “I’ve been looking for you _everywhere_! I was _this_ close to going mad! If anything had happened to you…”

“If anything had happened to me, it would have been _your fault_!” Grief has given way to rage. “You have no idea what the last few days have been for me!”

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” He steps into the room, hands reaching out for her. “Please forgive me, baby. It won’t happen again. I promise.”

There’s only so much a sensitive spirit like Éowyn’s can take in a single night. Overwhelmed, she retreats to the farther corner, trying to get away from everything.

Then Éowyn sees of all visions in this hour the strangest, for he falls upon his knees. Never has she seen him thusly. His black greaves sink noiselessly in the tufted floor, and the gleam of his eyes is now a sad pleading flicker.

“Don’t turn away from me, baby!,” he beseeches. “If you won’t forgive me, you might as well drive a blade through me and be done with it.”

“You can’t be killed!,” Éowyn rejoinders. But her heart is not in it.

“Yes, not by the hand of man will I fall; so has been prophesied. But the scorn of this one woman may suffice to tear my flesh asunder and spell the end of me.

“Please, don’t do this! Please! You can’t imagine how hot my love for you burns. Hotter than the fire of the great dragons of yore; yea, hotter even than the Cracks of Doom. I would willingly cast the One Ring into the fires of my passion if that were to bring about your forgivess and I could spend my final instants in your arms.”

Faramir’s image has left her. He seems very distant, as something pertaining to a realm far away, to a lost age of history.

_Yes. This is life. This is love._ This _is what the test was about._ She wipes her tears. _This is what I was due to find after so many tribulations._

She can certainly attest to the intensity of her _dwimmerlaik_ ’s love. Hot enough to melt the One Ring, he has said. Hot enough, she knows, to melt _her_.

And melt she does. Her nightshirt slides down her body and pools at her feet as liquid silver. Resolutely she stands before fate, concealing nothing.

“Whoa.” He sounds less inspired now. As little inspired his words are as only the highest forms on inspiration can engender.

She lowers her eyes. “Why so surprised? Isn’t this what you were expecting?” She smiles bashfully. “Well, here it is. Behold! You look upon a woman.”

“And what a woman!”

An instant later, the black fabrics and metals that give him substance are scattered on the carpet close to her white nightshirt. Éowyn and her _dwimmerlaik_ are left with nothing to clothe themselves with save the bed linens and each other.

Time stops. The stars rest in their ceaseless courses across the skies and turn their twinkling gazes into the room to behold the ageless ritual begun anew. In that stretch of no-time –in that private, personal, strikingly intimate time– Éowyn lives through an elation, a dizziness, a maelstrom of raw and diverse sensations as she has never imagined before.

His caresses are like the caresses of the breeze. His kisses are as intangible as the kisses of the moonlight. _It’s like a dream._ She clasps her arms around him who by his nature is not completely there, yet is _more_ there than anyone Éowyn has ever clasped. Her whole body is trembling as her knees did when she first laid eyes upon him in the battlefield.

A blaze burns inside her. She can’t bear the inner searing, yet wants it not to come to an end. It burns hotter and hotter, higher and higher, brighter and brighter, until it fiercely overflows her and consumes the world.

Later, when time resumes its pace and she recovers her senses, she will know its name. _Pínwannath_ , it’s called in Elvish. The little death. And as death it feels. Death so sweet she desires life only to obliterate herself in it.

The world was created by music, the old traditions say, and _this_ is how that music is danced to. The Dance of Life. As ancient as Creation, yet never old. The Children of Ilúvatar have partaken in this dance with the unending rhythm of the tides and the seasons ever since they first awoke beneath the onlooking stars. Even earlier than that, the Valar themselves danced upon the Undying Lands. _Ainuliltalë_. The Dance of the Ainur.

The dancing finally ends, for, although it is eternal, it’s not untiring. The dancing ends, and Éowyn glows. _Literally_ she glows. Her flushed skin gives off a soft pinkish radiance only someone in her heightened state could notice. Her hair is fluid gold spilled on the pillow. Her bosom rises and falls as though this is the first time she has ever drawn breath.

Beside her on the feather mattress, flint strikes steel. Curls and wisps of blue smoke are blown into the air. The first words Éowyn hears in her new life are:

“Well, that wasn’t that bad, was it?”


	8. Steel and Blood

### Chapter 8

#### Steel and Blood

_Well,_ Éowyn is brooding. _Now what?_

_Now,_ she answers her own question, _we’ll be together forever. He is honour-bound to take me. We belong to each other._

Dawn has broken, but the light is cold and murky. A thick, featureless coat of leaden clouds masks the sky, and a wintry gale is lashing out against the land. Éowyn leaves the comfort of the bed to close the shutters. Then, finding the blanket upon her shoulders insufficient against the unseasonable chill, she picks up her nightshirt off the floor and adds it to her wrappings. Satin’s caress upon her skin brings back memories of last night, the new centre of her life.

By his signs she can follow her beloved _dwimmerlaik_ ’s progress about the room. The hollow on the matress… The fleeting footprints on the carpet… The garments he’s now hurriedly clothing himself with…

“You’re leaving already?”

“You know how this is, baby. The boss is on my case. I don’t get a moment’s respite.”

“You can’t leave now. It’s about to rain!”

“That’s springtime weather for you. One moment not a cloud to be seen, and the next–”

“Before you leave, we need to talk.”

“Talk?” He might lack a visible face, but he _does_ have a body language. And his body language is saying _not now, please,_ with a clarity that requires no translation.

She pays no mind to that, however. She’s instead fingering the hilt of the Morgul-knife tucked in his belt.

“This thing… This thing will make me like you are, won’t it?”

“Well, sort of. In theory.”

“In theory?”

“I tried it once on a little fellow who took the boss’s Ring. It didn’t catch.”

She takes a couple steps back. “In that case, we’ll just have to keep on trying, won’t we?” Her neckline is low enough, but she still pulls it down further. She lifts her chin as well, to make sure the way is clear. Nothing else has she left to give; this is the ultimate love offering. “Go straight for the heart. You know how to do it.”

“Um… Can we talk about this later?”

Before Éowyn can answer, an ear-piercing shriek comes from the door. Meril is standing there; a bundle of firewood in her arms gives away her purpose of lighting a fire in the chamber. That plan is now forgotten, as the maid drops her burden and flees screaming down the corridor.

“I’d better be going before it’s too late, baby.”

But it is too late already. Running and shouting can be heard rising from the bailey.

“Nazgûl! A Nazgûl has slipped past the guard!”

“Look! His winged mount is on the veranda!”

“Bowmen! Shoot at it! Shoot at it now! _Shoot better than that, damn it!_ Where did you all learn to use a bow? Now it’s flying away!”

“But where is its rider?”

“Find him! He must be nearby!”

“Bye, baby,” he whispers, and bolts for the door.

“Wait! They’ll see you!” Unthinkingly she hurries after him out of the chamber and down the stairs.

And see him they do. Faramir is standing in the middle of the Great Hall as Beregond, the captain of the guard, is reporting the latest developments. There’s neither time nor place to hide, and then Faramir needs to be apprised no more.

“There he is!” His sword glints with a fire as he unsheathes it.

“Well, if that’s the way you want it…” The uninvited guest feels for his own sword, and with a slow, deliberate motion he rises it. The blade is as smoke given solid form, and it seems to blunt and wither the light rather than reflect it.

“Are you well, my lady?,” Faramir asks Éowyn, concern hardening his appearance. “Did this beast do anything to you?”

“I’m– I’m fine.” Nothing she manages but take cover in the most secluded corner of the room.

“The White Guard to me!” Faramir’s call is as loud and clear as the blast of a horn.

And with that, the signal has been given for the battle to commence.

Steel meets steel, and no further prelude is needed. Then it’s just the old routine: lunge and retreat, parry and counter-parry, riposte, feint, and remise. The clanging of the blades is as a music, and the fighters are accomplished players.

_Why must men measure themselves like this?,_ Éowyn despairs. _Why do they need to best each other and prop up their pride on the humiliation of the defeated?_

It’s three against one now. Faramir, Beregond, and a young lieutenant have cornered the Nazgûl against the staircase, forcing him to back up the steps.

But the Black Captain of Mordor, in spite of his disadvantageous situation, is faring amazingly well. He has contrived to injure Faramir and the lieutenant. He even seems to be enjoying himself.

_I’m a shieldmaiden of Rohan! I should pick up a sword and join the fight,_ she thinks. _But on whose side?_

“A nice chandelier you have here, my lord,” the Nagûl remarks . “Is it yours?”

“Why? Do you want it?”

“I want it and I’ll _take it_!”

Only the shortest running start he needs to leap into the air and sommersault over the heads of his opponents. His free hand reaches resolutely for the closest metalic arm of the massive light fixture.

Faramir laughts heartily as he swipes the sweat off his brow. “You fool! That wasn’t made to bear the weight of a man!”

“Who said I expect it to?”

The cracking of the rafters as they give way is a thunderclap in the Great Hall. Down Nazgûl and chandelier come unto the floor of polished stone.

Further guards come running through the doors, drawn in by the shouting and the racket, and when they do a formidable sight welcomes them. Some of them it also bids farewell, for it’s the last thing they’ll ever see.

Never before in the history of Middle-earth has a chandelier been wielded as a weapon of war. But now, swung by hands gifted with superhuman strength and skills honed by centuries, it shatters shields and sends swords flying that rise against it. And to splinters it turns bones with a harrowing crushing noise.

The Nazgûl is on his own turf now. His laughter darkens the room as he firmly grips the chain that used to attach the thing to the rafters overhead.

“You could say I have a knack with light weapons. Ha, ha! Get it?”

“Such an abominable sense of humour as only the servants of the Dark Lord would wreak upon the earth!”

“Hey! It wasn’t that bad. So gloomy you are! Here, allow me to lighten you up a bit.”

Faramir dodges a swing that would have left him a broken human waste had it hit its intended target. Now he’s keeping just out of reach, seeking a gap in his enemy’s defence.

“You are no fun!,” cries the Nazgûl. The horizontal sweeps of the chandelier give way now to vertical hammerings, more dramatic in the deadliness of their descending arcs, but also more easily eluded. Cobwebs of meandering fissures deface the stone floor, and will for a long time be a tangible memory of the combat.

“Ouch!” Suddenly the Nazgûl ceases his attack. He drops the chain from limp fingers and reaches for his shoulder. “This thing is cool, but spells ruin for your joints. I will need a massage later.”

Éowyn freezes, for she’s certain he’s looking at _her_ as he says that. At least that’s what he usually does.

The danger past, the intruder is quickly surrounded. Men in high helms close in on him, their swords poised before them.

“It’s over!,” Faramir roars. “Surrender, foul thing of evil, and your end will be swift and merciful!”

“Surrender?” The Nazgûl’s laughter sounds like the belaboured breathing of a dying man. He spreads his arms defiantly before his assailants. “Strike me with all your might, Steward of Gondor, son of a dead madman! Strike me and see what happens!”

“No more idle words! Die now and rid the world of your reek!”

But even after the enraged stroke, the Ringwraiths, as far as everyone knows, are still nine. Shards of steel shoot out in every direction, leaving only the grip in Faramir’s hand and a mystified expression upon his countenance.

“My face!” Éowyn falls to her knees, her legs suddenly unable to hold her upright. Warm blood pools between her fingers as she presses them against the distressing pain.

“Éowyn!” Faramir forgets about his foe and rushes to her.

“Uh oh,” his foe says.

The Prince of Ithilien doesn’t think twice about tearing a sleeve of his tunic to shreds. His hair blows in the drafts and his sweaty arm glistens as he dabs Éowyn’s cheek with the crumpled pieces of cotton fabric.

Blood stains Éowyn’s white bedclothes scarlet. The pain can scarcely be endured without fainting. She feels it reaching deep into the bone, cold and sharp and ruthless. But what torments her the most is that she heard only _one_ voice crying out her name.

Beyond Faramir’s afflicted frown she spots her _dwimmerlaik_ clambering up a tapestry depicting a hunting scene, guards hounding him at the foot of the wall. His goal is a high window that opens near the ceiling, and his strength doesn’t forsake him. Finally he stands on the windowsill, his dark clothes flapping in the wind; he shifts his weight towards the outer ledge, and then he… whistles?

Whistling he is indeed with the full power of his wraithly lungs, and presently a screech and the flapping of vast wings rise in answer. Just before jumping out, he addresses the guards assembled beneath him:

“ _Namárië_ , suckers!”

His parting look about the hall is for Éowyn. And for once she can’t read his body language.

They never hear him hit the ground. The leaded windows overlooking east show the inky shape of the winged black steed carrying its rider away.

_He can’t leave! He can’t leave me like this!_ But a different part of her is going: _What a man!_

The last thing egressing the hall through a window wasn’t human. Neither is the next thing coming through the door.

That thing is, as a matter of fact, a hat. An old skull cap it is, frayed and faded, balanced on a pole. And the pole is held uncertainly by wrinkled, elderly hands. Even through the crimson mist Éowyn recognises Sador, the aged manservant she first met on the eve.

“Is it safe to come in?,” he asks warily. “I wasn’t sure… The Valar be good!”

“What do you say of this wanton slaughter, Sador?” Faramir never turns to see him, still tending to Éowyn’s wound.

“That I’ve never seen the like of it. Not in any house where I have served.” His eyes take in the grim scene. At length he blurts out, horror trembling on his voice: “ _The chandelier!_ ”

Hastily he staggers to the discarded unconventional weapon, his skull cap set back on his balding pate.

“It was an ancient heirloom of Dwarvish manufacture,” he laments. “It has hung here almost as long as the place has stood. Now it’s all twisted and dented. It will never look the same.”

“Please, Sador!” Faramir’s tone grows severe, yet never angry. “The blood of good men was shed here today.”

“You’re right, my lord.” He sets out to study his environs. “How will we ever get it off the tapestries? Oh! My lord!”

“What it is, Sador?”

“You have been injured!”

“It’s nothing. Go fetch my surgeon! The Lady Éowyn needs his ministerings.”

“But, my lord… Your doublet… There’s a rip on your doublet!”

“That’s to be expected if I have been injured, isn’t it?”

“The old man has got a point!,” Beregond exclaims as he removes his helm. “The rip upon your clothes is shaped after a rune, my lord!”

“A rune?” Faramir looks down, making a point of not leaving Éowyn unattended, and sees his captain is speaking sooth. “Why would that dark creature carve a rune upon me during the swordfight?”

“Because it’s easier than them Elvish letters, I suppose,” says a guard.

“What letter is it?,” yet another guard asks, stretching his neck for a better view. Astonished murmurations spring forth and grow louder by degrees among those curious members of the White Guard now congregated around their betters.

“It’s an _E_!”

“Are you sure? It looks like a _N_ to me.”

“Or, if you tilt your head to the side–”

“It’s an _E_ , I tell you! I know a letter when I see it.”

Éowyn’s emotions are in turmoil. Yes, her _dwimmerlaik_ has brought distress to her and abandoned her in her moment of greatest need. Yet she can’t help but feel deeply touched, and her tears mingle with her blood as they both impregnate the makeshift dressing.

For she can’t conceive but of one word that that _E_ could stand for.


	9. A Dwarf Merchant

### Chapter 9

#### A Dwarf Merchant

Just a flesh wound, the surgeon proclaimed. Nothing to fret about. It will soon heal leaving no scar behind.

“We are all very fortunate,” Prince Faramir told her. “Your beauty shall not be tarnished.”

Éowyn holds her fingers wistfully to the bandage on her cheek. Yes, it’ll heal, but the wound she’s concerned about never will. _He will not want me now._

The Great Hall is empty, except for the twisted wreck in its very center. She finds it an apt metaphor for her heart.

The men dead in the struggle and the tapestries stained with their blood have been already carried away. The former to be buried, the latter to be incinerated. Or the other way around. It was never too clear.

The framed pictures, however, have survived mostly instact, and still they hang upon the walls. They give Éowyn a moment’s calm wherein her mind is not engaged in contemplating her despair.

She lingers before a portrait of the Prince’s father. He was very like his son, except for his demeanor. There is a stern air about the oil-painted eyes and the firm-set jaw, giving the effect of a man not to be trifled with. ‘Denethor II, son of Ecthelion’, the Elvish characters engraved on the frame read. ‘Twenty-sixth Steward of Gondor. III 2930 - III 3019’. Any other biographical details are to be found, presumably, in the Annals of Minas Tirith, or in the lays sung by minstrels. He went out, they say, in a blaze of glory. Except without the ‘glory’ part.

The largest picture, however, is one portraying the likeness of the realm’s highest master: King Elessar, also known as Aragorn, founder of the House Telcontar. _The artist has made a good job of making him look kingly._ She knew him back when he was but a Ranger nicknamed _Strider_ ; she was present alongside Éomer at his coronation. The man was nothing like Faramir. He never struck her as equal parts soldier and nobleman, both halves sewn together seamlessly. He looked rather like a beggar who happened to chance upon a mantle and a crown. _And a bar of soap._ Éowyn wrinkles her nose at the olfactive memory.

_To think he had me smitten! What did I ever see in him?_ A loud sigh escapes her and fills the Hall’s silence. _I guess I’m doomed to fall for the wrong man every time._

Éowyn’s reverie is interrupted by the double doors swinging open on their hinges. The doorway, tall enough to accommodate a man riding horseback into the hall should anyone be so inclined, seems definitely overkill for he who now steps through it.

_Well? Who said Dwarves don’t have vanity?_

This particular dwarf seems quite concerned indeed about his appearance. His long ginger beard is tied up in a throng of small braids and tresses. His clothes are rich and colourful, a far cry from the more pragmatic sartorial preferences of his kind. And on top of high shoes he walks to give his stature a boost.

The newcomer bows deeply before Éowyn. As deeply, at any rate, as the distance between his head and his waist will allow.

“Greetings, my lady.” His voice is softer and more melodious than she expected. “I have been asked to assess a certain chandelier. I am Regin, son of Thorin, at your service.”

“Thorin? Thorin Oakenshield? He who was King under the Mountain?”

“That’s a different Thorin. Well, let’s see what we have here…” His expression transmogrifies as soon as he claps eyes on the object of his interest. “Masterly Mahal! What happened to it?”

_My boyfriend used it as a blunt weapon after taking that which was most precious to me, and then he left me here, bleeding._ Of course, she mentions nothing of the kind. Instead she says:

“There was an accident.” _I accidentally destroyed my chances at happiness._

Regin makes no attempt at hiding his astonishment. “An accident indeed!,” he bellows as he paces around the chandelier, almost as large as he is, and leans in to examine the brandmark on one of the crooked arms. “ _Ivaldi & Sons_. A real pity. Mighty fine craftsmen they were in Khazad-dûm. Before they went down, that is. Fire demons from the ancient world are bad for business.”

His face grows serious and contemplative. “My professional advice is to replace the piece entirely. And I happen to have just the thing for it in my wagon. Not as fancy, of course, but will do.” He gingerly prods the chandelier, which rocks on the spot. “I can rid you of the scrap metal as part of the bargain, if you wish.”

“You will have to talk with Sador about that.”

“Sador? Oh! You mean the ancient gentleman who showed me in–” Out of a sudden he seems to have lost the thread of his thoughts. His last sentence is left hanging as he ponders Éowyn with queer eyes, as though she were herself a valuable piece of merchandise.

When he talks again, his tone is warmer. “Is aught the matter, my lady? Is there anything I can do for you?”

_Vain, yet also perceptive._ A sad smile precedes her reply.

“Nothing you could possibly help with, Master Dwarf, regardless of your skills. I thank you nonetheless for your kindness.”

He doesn’t look satisfied, and draws a bit closer, as in confidence. “We of Durin’s Folk are renowned for our metalworking and avidity for gold. There are those among us, however, who are possessed of some… well… some _subtler_ talents.”

“Business talents?”

Regin shakes his head and replies with voice lowered: “Such talents as may come handy in matters of the heart.”

Éowyn’s eyes open widely. “Is it so obvious?” Her voice has fallen to a whisper as well.

“My lass, it wouldn’t be any more obvious if you wrote it in three-foot letters upon your brow.”

“Really? Er… Is my brow so big?”

“Come with me, if you please…”

The wagon is parked along the curtain wall, close to a gate. A sturdy team of oxen is yoked to it, and not a grain of their strength goes to waste, for the wagon is big enough for the dwarf to make his residence in it. Inside it is filled to the brim with all manner of stock, both useful and useless: wicker chairs, candelabra, walnut and mahogany writing desks, rolled-up rugs, baskets of nickel silver tableware, lutes and psalteries, painted dividing screens come from remote lands…

“Okay, where is it? I saw it just the other day!” Regin is rummaging through the contents of a large chest, pulling things off that hamper his search: copper salad bowls, mouldy books, bolts of exotic fabrics, cases containing lead soldier figurines and ivory dice as are used in certain parlour games…

“Here it is!” He stands upright and turns around, a look of triumph on his face, holding a small glass vial wrapped in a red velvet pouch. “Most powerful love-philtre this side of the Misty Mountains. Just pour a few drops in his wine and he’s yours forever.”

Éowyn takes the offered potion with hesitating fingers. Her curiosity is thoroughly aroused.

“What about the other side of the Misty Mountains?”

“That’s my cousin Sindri’s territory.”

She turns the vial in front of her eyes, hearing the liquid slosh quietly. It feels unreal. There’s a faint glow about it, barely discernible yet still brighter than it is accountable by the velvet catching what scarce light is inside the wagon.

“You know… I always imagined this kind of dealings as taking place in the cottage of a witch.”

“Well… You’re not so far off the mark,” the dwarf says enigmatically. “Can you keep a secret?”

“I certainly can.” _I have been keeping secrets for a good while now._

Regin looks cautiously around, as though eavesdroppers might be hiding in the wares he peddles.

“You see,” he murmurs, “I find it easier to travel around and conduct business if I am taken for male.”

“Oh!” Some time passes before Éowyn can shape her mouth after a different letter. “You mean you are–?”

“Shhhh! It’s our secret now.” His wink, now _her_ wink, takes on a different meaning that it would have had a few instants before.

“And Regin is your actual name?”

“It’s _Regine_. But don’t tell anyone!”

“I won’t!,” she promises, feeling her kindredship for the Dwarven merchant grow deep. She holds the vial to her bossom, as though it contained the very life of her. “Thank you, Regine, daughter of a different Thorin. How will I ever repay you?”

“Three tharnis would be fine.”

“Oh! Yes. Of course.” Her hand slips into a fold of her dress and a shiny, newly-minted coin comes out. “Do you have change for a castar?”

“For that extra tharni, I can offer you this brass candlestick. It’s a vintage piece! Cheap at twice the price.”

“I’ll take it! And in the nights of my contentment, I will look upon the candle burning on it and think back of how _you_ made it all possible.”

“Oh! Sentimental value. That’ll be two tharnis then.”

“Twice the price?”

“Still cheap, as I just said.”

“Um… Just keep the change. And thank you again!”

“A pleasure doing business with you, my lass.”

A fine drizzle is falling as she steps out of the wagon; the cobblestones are slick under her clogs. Yet Éowyn cares not. She’s intent on a single matter:

_Who will drink the philtre?_

She rushes to her chamber determined to give this question some serious though, the dwarf’s words still hammering in her mind:

_It wouldn’t be any more obvious if you wrote it in three-foot letters upon your brow._

And to try and grow a fringe.


	10. Dancing Gowns

### Chapter 10

#### Dancing Gowns

Éowyn feels guilty, and a heavy sorrow lades her mood. Not even the birds chirping in the gardens and the colourful flower beds under the sun lift the shadow from out her soul. Guilty and sorrowful she feels, not only because heart-rending choices lie before her, but also because affliction seems to follow her around and trample on those that come near. Because of her, others are made to bear burdens that are not theirs to bear.

Foremost in her thoughts is Meril. To no avail are Sador’s cajoling, threats, and entreaties. She would rather, she swears, scrub outhouses and muck pigsties for the rest of her days than set foot again in the corridor that leads to that accursed chamber, or indeed anyplace where Éowyn may be found.

Her anguish about Meril, however, is somewhat lessened by the genial spirit of her replacement. Emelin is an elderly matron, twice widowed, whose favourite topic of conversation is her three sons: Bellmund, Bellthorond, and Bellcabor. Of greatest interest to Éowyn, however, is the fact that she has served in the household of the Stewards of Gondor ever since Faramir was in swaddles. In Emelin’s jovial company she ends up learning of remarkable, amusing, or mildly embarrasing episodes of his life, which contribute to her feeling him closer to her heart.

And she also learns of the more immediate circunstance that Faramir is to attend the upcoming Midsummer Ball of the Queen.

The Ball has been announced months in advance. News about it has reached as far west as Anfalas and as far north as Rivendell. Couriers from lands both near and distant have converged upon Minas Tirith carrying notices of attending from every lord and prince of Men, and even a few of Elves.

Every lord and prince, that is, except for Éomer. _He’s so dull!_ As for Éowyn, she wouldn’t have dreamt of going where her _dwimmerlaik_ cannot lead. Now that she knows Faramir will be there, however, her outlook is quite different.

“And you never know,” Emelin gives her an enigmatic look and a wink. “Maybe he’ll find someone there fittin’ to be the Lady o’ Emyn Arnen.”

“Uh… What do you mean?”

“All I’m sayin’ is, I shouldn’t be surprised if he asked you to come with him. If I were you, I’d get a dancin’ gown this very day. _The Eastern Swallow_ downtown stocks gorgeous wear.”

“Today? He hasn’t asked me yet!”

“The Ball is very soon. What if you wait ‘til the last possible minute and then find nuthin’ in the shops? You dun want him ‘rounded by nubile ladies looking their best an’ you dressed like the help, do you?”

Éowyn looks down at her unassuming mousy-brown dress and suddenly finds herself wondering how could she ever put on such a disgraceful thing. She struggles to keep her composure, yet on her inside she’s already weeping.

“But I can’t afford it!” No shoes and no money: so shamefully unladen she fled Edoras. What little tharnis she has spent while in Emyn Arnen have come, via Sador, from the Prince himself. It wouldn’t reflect kindly on the lord of the place to have his guest go about penniless. He might as well have her sleep in the stables. The price of a gown, however, is quite above the definition of ‘pocket money.’

“But surely you can write, yeah?,” retorts Emelin, unfazed.

“Uh… Yes.”

“Well, then you can do as the King does to get money. You can write bonds to pay after the war and sell ’em.”

“You can do that?”

“They do it all the time! They call it sov’reign debt, ’cause if you buy a bond then the sov’reign owes you money.”

“But… I’m not a sovereign!”

“So what? You never know who the sov’reign will be after a war,” Emelin exposites knowingly. “Remember, the King has no heirs as of yet. And I dun need to remind you who’ll rule Gondor if… well… if that thing as happens to kings in wars were to happen to ours.”

“I don’t know…” A ray of hope has pierced the gloom of her soul, yet still a lingering vacilation holds her back. “It doesn’t feel right to wager on such matters.”

“Oh, it’s not a wager, m’lady. Think of it as… as an _investment_.”

_No. This is not right,_ Éowyn tells herself. _It’s not right,_ she repeats as Emelin fetches ink, quill, and paper. _It’s not right,_ she insists as she scribbles the figures and signs her name.

“This isn’t right,” the gaunt moneylender says, leaning over the document. “A Rohan bond? Never seen such a thing. I thought the Horse-lords only understood cash.” He sniffs the fresh ink as though he could smell monetary value. “Are you sure the sister of the King has proper standing to issue such securities?”

Éowyn can’t say a word. She’s frozen, completely stumped. She would sooner turn around and run out of the place.

Emelin answers in her instead, having by all appearances appointed herself her mistress’s financial deputy. She somehow manages all the effect of getting between Éowyn and the old man without bodily getting between Éowyn and the old man.

“Well, King Éomer hisself is comin’ this way,” she counters. “He wouldn’t show up if he intended to get away from payin’, now would he?”

Éowyn shivers. The first part, at least, is likely to be true. Éomer is liable to be galloping to Emyn Arnen right now, a full _éored_ behind his back. She can picture him riding into the Great Hall, settling her accounts, and generally embarrassing her. _I wish Faramir didn’t send that messenger!_ The full scope of the Prince’s protection will be put hard to the test when her brother arrives.

The lender is not entirely convinced. There’s still doubt in his tiny rheumy eyes. Yet he reaches into a iron coffer and sets a handful of gold coins on top of the table.

Emelin grasps the money with a pudgy hand and studies it keenly. “This is less than half what—”

“You can take that,” the old man says, “or you can wait for the King and try to cash the bond in person.”

“But—”

“It’s alright, Emelin.” Éowyn reaches for the maid’s shoulder, not as much to stay her as to rather steady herself. “Let’s get out of here. I can’t breathe.”

“As you wish, m’lady.” She doesn’t seem to be happy, but won’t argue. She just pours the coins into a leather purse and then takes shelter in a dark corner to fasten the purse on a garter.

Éowyn’s head is swimming as she exits the usurer’s den. The world around her is wrong, and the wrongness of it overwhelms her senses. There seems to be too much light, too much noise, too much air.

And the source of her disquite follows closely behind.

“That money is tainted,” Éowyn mutters. “I never touched it, yet i feel it burning my hands.”

“Well, if it burns you, you better spend at once!” Emelin points across the square towards a boutique. A flying bird is etched on the glass pane, and a sign above the door spells the name of the shop: _The Eastern Swallow_. “Look! There’s my sister’s place.”

“Your sister? Your sister is the owner?”

“Yes. Dint I mention that? I’m sure I did.”

Ms. Tuilinn turns out to be a remarkable woman. She’s as tall and slender as her older sibling isn’t, and she moves past dress forms and cloth swatches with effortless affectation. Éowyn can’t help but examine her from head to toe. She’s swathed in the fur of at least three species of fauna. Her white hairs she has painted black, and a broad stripe of her black hairs she has painted white. Whenever she blinks, her wing-like eyelashes give the momentary impression that her face is about to take flight.

There’s a commoner, Èowyn thinks at first blush, she wouldn’t hesitate to call _lady_. But only at first blush.

The shop owner, on her part, doesn’t seem to know the word. She keeps calling Éowyn _my child_.

“I am delighted, my child! Not every day I get to dress a princess.” A slender ebony pipe with a straight stem she helds in a gloved hand, but never takes to her lips. _Is she afraid to smear red on it, as on her teeth?_ Sweet-smelling ringlets curl up from the small gilt bowl. Éowyn has come to learn enough about _galenas_ to know that that is not a variety grown for smoking.

“Alright, everyone! The shop is closed! Come back tomorrow!” Ms. Tuilinn claps her hands; the large rings she wears on top of the gloves make a dull tinkling noise. A dozen customers file towards the door, grumbling about how the place will go down unless the quality of the service contrives to rise above that of the goods for sale.

Very soon the shop is empty save for three people. Éowyn feels as a hare facing two hounds. Ms. Tuilinn bares her teeth in a huge grin. _I wish she didn’t do that_.

“I have a couple gowns perfect for you, my child! I have kept them for years, carrying them with me hither and thither, as I had never met anyone before worthy of wearing them. And they’re the latest fashion, too!”

Any misgivings Éowyn had fade the moment the gowns leave their boxes.

As gold and gems are to the Dwarves, so these gowns are to the dreams of a woman. Day and night they are. The one is a sky blue that grows slightly purplish when beheld from certain angles, cloudy here and there with pale lace most exquisite. The other is black, blacker than the midnight sky; so black is the fabric that it appears to have depth. Black yet not dim, for it is full of light. Countless glimmering beads of crystal are constelated on the skirt and the sleeves, and twin comet tails blaze upon the front.

“And they seem to have been made for you! The fit is perfect, and they make your skin look so fresh and rosy,” Ms. Tuilinn remarks. “I should not marvel, for they and you seem out of the same song.”

“I can’t choose,” Éowyn muses as she turns in front of the full-body mirror, and hundred of shooting stars twirl fleetingly around her. “To choose one is to spurn the other.” Suddenly the applicability of that principle to matters other than party garb comes to her, and again a cloud darkens her disposition.

“Why choose?,” Emelin suggests. “You can have both!”

“Can I?” _I wish that were true of everything._

“O’course, m’lady! You got enough money.”

The combined price of both gowns, it chances, is exacly the amount obtained from the moneylender. Éowyn wonders about that, yet gladly parts with the funds. Night and day are now among her possessions, each neatly folded and wrapped in silk paper.

And not a day too early! For upon her return to the residence, Sador hands her a billet from his master. A very short note it is, gracefully written on glossy paper:

> _Lord Faramir will be pleased to have your company tonight at nine in the Great Hall for an evening of musical enjoyment._

“So formal!,” she says, reading the note over and over in her chamber. “What does _musical enjoyment_ means exactly?”

“It means _dancing_.” Emelin is beaming as though the invitation were for her. “Dint I tell you? He’s popping the question tonight!”

“He’s likely to ask me to the Ball. That’s not exactly _the_ question, is it?”

“You can think of it as a kinda _forequestion_.” She’s humming to herself and rehearsing a few dance steps across the room. “You just need to pick one of your new gowns.*

“Do I?”

“O’course! The note is formal, so you must be formal. He needs to see you a worthy partner.”

_Gods. Will I never be free from the need to choose?_

As she ponders the pair of newly acquired bundles that lie on her bed, Éomer springs into her mind. She can clearly see him riding hard, never stopping to rest, the road lit at night by the wrath in his eyes.

She loves her brother, and wishes him no ill.

She simply prays for a downpour that will force him to seek shelter and check his progress for a few days.


	11. Love is in The Air

### Chapter 11

#### Love is in the Air

“I should wear the blue gown if I were you,” Emelin suggests. “Goes with your eyes.”

“My eyes are grey. They’re _boring_.”

“Really? They look blue in this light.”

And with that, the matter is settled. Choices are easier, Éowyn finds out, when someone else chooses for her.

After a light dinner, Éowyn sits down to let Emelin work on her hair. For a good while the maid endevours to build a blonde tower, as tall as it will go, and then adds a tortoiseshell comb for structural support. Quite tasteful the comb is, inset with a large beryl, and cunningly crafted into shapes that catch and multiply the lamplight. A cursory look might mistake it for a coronet. It belongs to Emelin’s daughter-in-law; Éowyn has gleaned that the woman doesn’t exactly know that it’s not in its drawer.

The looking-glass doesn’t make her totally happy. The gown retains its miraculous fit; but now her neck looks too long and bare, jutting upwards out of the exposed shoulders. It seems to her that her head will topple to the floor unless she stands perfectly still.

“I should have got some jewellery,” she says, vainly trying to arrange a few strands of hair left loose. “A necklace, or—”

“Not to worry, m’lady. All the adornment you’re gonna need tonight nature has already given to you. You just let me do these laces…”

“Ouch! That’s too tight!”

“Nonsense. There ain’t never tight _enough_ to showcase what you got. How d’you think I caught me two husbands?” Emelin’s hands are busy making sure every bit fits its pre-ordained place. “The slippers feel right?”

“Yes.” Éowyn hitches the hem of her gown to take a final look at the kidskin slippers. She can feel her toes curling and mounting on top of each other, but not a sigh of protest will she utter. _I have had them endure worse for less reward._ “These are yours? You have small feet!”

“ _Had_. I was ’bout your size when I was your age. Don’t you tell that to the Prince, though.”

Music is coming up the stairs. A band has arrived up the river in the morning, bound for Minas Tirith and the Queen’s Ball; and they have eagerly seized the chance to earn a few extra castars. ‘The Knights of Lebennin,’ they call themselves; but their only weapons are maracas, bongos and zithers, and with them they fill the place with soft cadences.

The horseshoe-shaped stairs lead down into the Great Hall itself. The principle behind this arrangement is that any people staying in the chambers abovestairs will be of enough consequence to need not to be announced at the door: the riffraff will gawk unbidden upon their descent. Eowyn moves down stiffly from step to carpeted step, constantly seeking balance on the bannister. She’s trying hard to keep her hairdo as vertical and wobble-free as possible, while at the same time struggling to not step on her own toes. The poor light is not helping matters. The new chandelier hasn’t yet been hung. A couple rows of standing candelabra throw a wavering ruddy-golden light along the hall, from the stairs to the raised chair at the far end where the Steward of Gondor and Prince of Ithilien sits to preside over ceremonies.

The Steward of Gondor and Prince of Ithilien, however, is not now upon his hight seat. He is waiting for her in his best fineries at the foot of the stairs.

And when his eyes rise to her, he is overcome.

“Whoa,” he seems to say. Of course, Éowyn knows, that is not the case. She just _thinks_ she heard that. Lords and princes don’t go _whoa_.

_Oh, gods. He is actually gawking._ But no grin or chortle, no sign of giddiness at all, she allows to alter her demeanor. She focuses her attention in remaining queenly, proud, and gawk-worthy.

Negotiating the stairs demands all her concentration, and once or twice she needs to look down at her feet lest she stumbles. And when she does so, she sees the choice of raiment has been the right one. In the muted candlelight the gown is the colour of an early sunset, and its clouds of lace glow as pale gold.

“My lady Éowyn.” Faramir takes her hand, bewilderment still set upon his face. “You look like… Like the sky itself has come down to pay me a visit. I am moved by such beauty as now graces my hall.”

“You lie,” she lies. She knows he meant it. At any rate, she knows she _wants_ him to have meant it. However, it won’t do to show that. “You are very polite to say so.”

“There’s more to my words than mere politeness,” he insists, regaining something of his princely aplomb. “I bear witness to the truth. If the Lady of the Sun were to lay eyes on you, she would blanch with envy and refuse to rise in the morning.”

_Yes. That. Don’t stop it. Keep it coming, please._

She lowers her eyes timidly. “You are too kind, my lord.”

“There is no being _too_ kind to you. And I must renew my request that you call me Faramir.”

“I will, in that case. Faramir.” A brightness grows in his eyes in response to her smile.

“Will you honour me with this dance, Éowyn?”

_This dance and every dance ever._

“Well… It’d be a pity to let such lovely music go undanced to, wouldn’t it?”

The centre of the hall feels miles away. Every step hurts, and not just in her feet. But at length they both stand on a carpet that has been set on the floor to cover something, she’s no longer sure what.

He bows deep, reaches gently to her, and the dancing commences. Éowyn shivers. Her hands are on his shoulders, his hands are on her waist, and the world spins around them. Nothing else matters as long as she can find herself in the reflection of those intense, charming, grey eyes.

“Is your face healing?,” he asks suddenly.

“My face? Oh! This.” She makes to touch her cheek, but Faramir’s body gets in the way. “Yes. I’m fine. Thank you.”

“I should have gone mad with grief and rage if any misfortune had befallen you. Such a failure of my protection that was! Even such slight injury as you got upsets my heart.”

_No! There are so much better things for you heart to do._

“It’s not your fault—”

“Oh, but it is. I have redoubled the guard at gates and walls. No other intruder will sneak in unremarked. You will be as safe here as in your own home.”

_You don’t know Éomer_.

She tries to make light of the matter and change the subject, but Faramir won’t let it go. He keeps describing how he’d feel and what he’d do if anything were to happen to her. For a moment Éowyn wishes he didn’t talk about himself so much.

“We don’t even know what that… that _devil_ wanted here,” he says.

“That’s in the past now.”

And with that, unthinkingly, she lays her head on his chest. Only moments later she realises it. It’s not something she meant to do; yet it feels now as something _right_ to have done. His arms wrap about her, protective and snug.

No new words are uttered. The music has grown sweeter and mellower in the minstrel’s gallery, and a swarthy singer croons with raspy voice:

> _Love is in the air tonight._   
>  _You’re so radiant, you’re so bright_   
>  _I’m defenceless; yes, defenceless,_   
>  _I give up without a fight._
> 
> _Love so tender, love so sweet_   
>  _I have known since we did meet,_   
>  _I surrender; yes, surrender,_   
>  _lay my weapons at your feet._

_This is a dream._

He feels so… So… So _solid_. She can hear his breathing. And his heartbeat; he _does_ have a hearbeat. A warmth is actually radiating off his body.

So solid, and so _alive_.

“My lady,” she hears his whispering. “Éowyn…”

“Faramir,” she mutters in return. “My lord.”

“Éowyn, I… There’s something I would like to ask you.”

In a manner as collected and cool as she can manage, she says: “Yes?”

“Well… Would you… Maybe…”

“Yes? What is it?”

“Unless you prefer to do something else, or have other plans. It’s fine if you do.”

“Yes, but what is it?” She bites her tongue upon noticing her voice’s shrill edge.

“Would you… I…” The dancing stops. She sees him gulp and breathe heavily, as if to calm himself. And calmer he sounds when he says: “I would be most honoured if you accepted to accompany me to the Queen’s Midsummer Ball.”

_Yes! Score!_

“It will be my pleasure to accompany you, my… Faramir.”

“ _My Faramir_ sounds lovely.”

Nothing is left to be said. Nothing, at least, that needs to be said with words. The dancing resumes, slow, leisurely, flowing from one step to the next. Before any of them knows how or why it happened, they are both in each other’s arms.

_Yes. This is what it should feel like._ There’s no burning fire here, no blaze that threatens to consume the world, yet it feels… It feels _right_. No razing inferno, but a hearth. A hearth that warms and brings comfort rather than devour.

A while passes before she comes to realise the band has left. Yet music seems to linger still about the place, in her heart if not in her ears. Shadows tremble large upon the walls, two forms fused together, indivisible.

The absence of prying eyes seem to embolden the Prince. His hands are tentatively trespassing boundaries that no Prince’s hands ought to trespass. Each of his fingers is a scout reconnoitering the terrain, uncertainly probing how far they can advance before raising the alarm; but no alarm is raised, for the trespassing is welcome.

“Éowyn…” Her name is the last thing she hears, soft and sultry as the murmured invocation of an amorous spirit, before their lips meet.

_To think I was about to give my life to a wraith,_ she thinks.

And then, as a dam suddenly breached, further memories come rushing to her that open a gaping void in her soul.

_Oh, gods. I_ did _give him something just as valuable._

Never had a syllable struggled so hard to go past Éowyn’s throat. In the end, however, it comes out, strained and sorrowful:

“No.”

“No?” Faramir sounds surprised and hurt.

“Not tonight. Please.” The words are hard to pronounce, like a language learned badly, for they run counter to everything she desires. “You and I…”

“Oh. Of course…” His hands depart her out-of-bounds districts and then her person altogether. Music has now definitely died away. He steps back, visibly embarrassed. “I’m sorry.”

_No. It’s me who’s sorry._ She feels lonely, desolate, and cold. She seeks comfort in his eyes, but he awkwardly turns his gaze away. _Please, look at me._ The shadows on the wall, now sundered, have acquired the chill, foggy quality of phantoms out of a bad dream. A dream she feels she’ll never awake from unless she can bask again in his stare.

“Have I offended you?,” he asks, his voice barely audible.

“I… Uh… I think I’d better retire to my bedchamber. It’s been a long day.”

“Ye… Yes. Of course. Uh… Good night, Éowyn.”

“Good night, my lord.” Her heart breaks as she sees him standing there, the injured expression of a beaten puppy upon her countenance; and she averts her eyes to spare her soul such crushing spectacle. The stairs feel horribly high, and its ascent as long as hard as climbing a mountain. And nothing Éowyn can conceive of is as empty as her chamber.

Straight she goes to a nacre chest on the bedstand, before even thinking of freeing her toes from the slippers; and from its hiding place under a mound of trinkets she pulls out a small tear-shaped object.

A silk ribbon fastens the velvet pouch to the glass vial, and the red gloom conceals something more precious that gold, for it is hope for the future in liquid form. Slowly, as from a great distance away, the words of the dwarf come to her.

_Just pour a few drops in his wine and he’s yours forever._

She repeats them to herself. She mouths them silently, feeling their taste. _Yours forever._ Sweet they are, yet they leave a bitter tang of doubt. Do they mean _yours forever in spite of anything?_ _Yours forever, no matter what you do or what he learns?_ Is there a love-philtre in Middle-earth strong enough for that?

And then upon a diverging thought she stumbles, a thought haunting and disturbing. What if fate brought this potion to her, not to chase chimeras of lavish gowns and princely weddings, but to follow her appointed path? To bind her to him who will not readily be bound, and reach her true destiny?

Éowyn’s eyes grow misty contemplating the forking road ahead, and a single tear hangs from the ledge of her eyelashes. What to do when duty points a way and the heart a different one?

_A man of the Riddermark does his duty,_ Éomer would say. _That is the first and the last thing for him._

But then again, she isn’t a _man_ …

The doorknob turning and the door opening intrude into her agony. Quickly she hides the vial whence she took it and lowers the lid of the chest.

“May I come in, m’lady?,” Emelin asks, standing on the doorway.

“Come on in. I just… I was just getting ready for bed.”

“Yes.” The maid is quieter than her usual self, more demure than Éowyn has known her so far. “But before I help you with your prep’rations… I have a message from m’lord, Prince Faramir.”

“A message from the Prince? What is it?”

“The Prince wants to know… With your ’scuses, as he dun mean to seem insistent or nuthin’… But he wants to know if you have changed your mind ’bout comin’ with him to the Queen’s Ball.”

“I… I don’t know.”

“M’lord looked very mortified. I dun think he’ll sleep soundly tonight ’less I carry him your answer. If you catch my meanin’.”

“Is he?” Éowyn is beset by a distressing sensation in her belly, as of having butterflies in her stomach, if butterflies had teeth. _Can I let my hesitancy anguish a good man? Isn’t this my duty as well?_

Inadvertently her hand alights on top of the nacre chest as she stands firm and resolute.

“Tell Prince Faramir I will be pleased to go with him to the Ball.”

Emelin makes no answer, but a light seems to be kindled in her face. A motherly smile bends her features, and before leaving she winks.

Éowyn’s hand neither leaves the chest nor opens it again. She can feel the vial inside as an ember burning against the chill of a careless, loveless existence. As the door is closed, she gives voice to the idea that has been fluttering inside her.

“There is only one duty,” she says to the empty room, “and that duty is to follow the heart.”


	12. The Quest of the Nine

### Chapter 12

#### The Quest of the Nine

“Hey, Kham!”

“Yes?” Khamûl, riding at the head of the company, knew what was about to come. Still, he stuck to playing his part.

“Do that thing!”

“Not now, boys.”

“Aww… Come on, Kham!,” Ren insisted. “We’re bored!”

Under his black hood, Khamûl stiffled a chuckle. His voice grew several degrees colder, and as harsh as sand blown by the wind. “ _Baaaaaggiiiiiiiinssss…_ ”

Laughter burst out amongst the company. So hard Ren cackled that, had he not gripped the bridle, he’d have fallen off his saddle.

“Boy, that never gets old!”

“You should have seen that guy’s face,” Kham said. “What was his name again? Margot?”

The merriment soon died away, for high spirits can’t endure for long in the Dead Marshes. The air was still and asphyxiating beneath heavy clouds. The place was entirely unwholesome to life, and only evil things moved about: pale Corpse-candles above the green broth-like waters, and the Nine Riders along the banks. Nothing could be heard but the wet sucking sound of hooves on fetid sludge.

Even to foul creatures must the eerie quietude eventually grow unbearable, for Ren broke it anew:

“Man, this sucks.”

“What sucks?”

“ _This_. The boss having us look for his Ring in random places. And making us ride these… Hey, Hoar! How was it you called these sluggish, non-flying things?”

“Horses.”

“Horses! That’s right. You’d think we’d be past that by now. And what’s the deal with having us wear these stupid black rags on our heads? _Pffft_. As if anyone were to be fooled. _Oh, I wonder who those mysterious black riders could be_ , said no one ever.”

“I think the boss is just lashing out at us,” Ji surmised. “He’s always in such a foul mood!”

“Well, misplacing your jewellery does that to you,” said Dwar, who barely ever spoke if not to suck up to the Dark Lord.

“No, it goes back longer than that. When was the last time you heard him laugh?”

“Not once since he brought about the Downfall of Númenor, I don’t think.” Hilly sounded nostalgic.

“Worst mistake he ever made.” The Nazgûl Lord’s deft fingers sent the smouldering weed-roll stub flying straight into the bog. “Choke-full of easily corrupted chicks, that land was.”

“Really?”

“Oh yes! Whenever I felt like some action, I would take the first ship bound for Rómenna. Man, I was never disappointed.”

“But that’s not why the boss went there.” Ren was looking curiously at him. “Or was it?”

“Why else do you think he left his Ring in his nightstand? Nothing makes chicks run away faster than those round shiny thingies.”

“But… Wasn’t precisely to get chicks that you got your Ring?”

“I thought no one would notice it next to my brass knuckles.”

“Well, that time is behind you anyway.” Kham spoke calmly, looking ahead to the way. “Isn’t that right, Eric?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that girlfriend of yours. Helen, right?”

“Éowyn.”

“Look, it’s easy,” a voice came from the back. “She’s a horse girl, and her name is a whinny. _Éoéoéowywywywywywyn_.”

The Black Captain didn’t need to turn his head to know who had spoken. _Vather. Of course._ Ever a weed-roll smoked in Vather’s fingers, even though he had run out of leaf days ago. And sure enough, there was only one person he could borrow from. Not that he intended to repay in kind or anything. _One day, Vather. One day…_

“Well, whatever her name is,” Kham went on. “It’s something serious, isn’t it?”

“Hah! That’s what she thinks.”

“Poor girl,” Addie said.

“Just chill, Adele,” Ji commanded.

“ _Adûnaphel_. I’m a guy, remember?”

“Sure, Addie. We have always thought of you as one of the guys.”

Much alacrity that remark engendered, and a few high-fives. But only eight of the nine voices laughed in genuine enjoyment.

“Ha, ha. Very funny,” Addie said.

“So, let me get something straight about this girl,” Hilly returned to the previous topic. “Her uncle was a king. Her brother is a king. And she’s dating a king? Don’t learned men have a name for that?”

“Turambar complex,” said Hoar.

“A king with just eight subjects?,” Vather remarked, louder than was warranted. “I’m sure a girl like that could do better.”

“One day Carn Dûm will rise again, and I will return there,” the king under consideration replied. “And _you_ , Vather, will be my court jester.”

“Ooooh. _Burn._ ”

“And she will be your Queen?”

“That’s a good question. Will there be a Witch-queen?”

“She certainly seems to have you _bewitched_ now, Eric.”

And in the funereal landscape, a chorus surged espontaneously against the silence:

“ _Eric and Éowyn sitting in a tree…_ ”

“Stop it!”

Reacting a single erstwhile man, the eight heeded the command immediately. If preternaturally stretched lives had taught them one lesson, that was how far to push and when to stop pushing before a superior lost his head and came into the view that others ought to lose theirs. Not many knew that only six Ringwraiths remained of the original nine. So once again, the soggy _glop-glop-glop_ of the thirty-six hooves became the only thing to be heard.

And once again, it was Ren who couldn’t stand it for long.

“Well, I don’t know about any of you, but I can’t smell any Ring. And hey! I have an idea. There’s a new cow farm not far from here.”

“You think cows have the Ring?” Ji sounded like he was trying to imagine that and failing. “Where would they wear it?”

“In the nose?” Addie scratched his head through the black hood. “That’s how farmers control them, I have heard.”

“Really? Farmers use rings to control lesser beings?” Dwar was fuming. “But the boss is evil for doing it? Talk about double standards!”

“I don’t think those are Rings of Power. That’d be a very undignified use.”

“Also, it would sound ridiculous. Can you imagine?” Vather cleared his throat and proceeded to show off his poetry prowess:

> _Three Rings for the Elven-kings under the sky,_   
>  _Seven for the Dwarf-lords in their halls of stone,_   
>  _Nine for chewing cows that eat rye…_

“Do cows eat rye?”

“I don’t know. But it _rye_ mes.”

Nothing but the damp silence of the marsh greeted those words. “That was lame,” put on the Black Captain.

“Why did you mention that farm, Ren?,” Khamûl tried to restore the conversation to its course.

“Well, we aren’t likelier to find the Ring _here_ than _there_. And I thought we could have some fun meanwhile. You know, do some tipping and stuff.”

“Cows can’t be tipped!,” Hoar argued in Hoarlike fashion. “Do you live in some kind of fantasy world?”

“I wasn’t talking about tipping _cows_.”

“What do you mean to tip, then?”

“Outhouses.”

“What’s fun about that?,” asked Ji.

“It’s hilarious when there’s a farmer inside.”

“So,” Hilly said slowly after a short pause, “your idea of amusement is to sit all day around an outhouse waiting for someone to use it?”

Ren thought about this. “We could use a bit of Black Breath to cause a slight upheaval of the bowels.”

“It might be more fun if we tipped the outhouse over _before_ doing that,” Vather suggested.

Khamûl seemed to consider the matter seriously. As second-in-command, he often dealt with morale issues. And he had come to learn that few things were more noxious to morale than boredom.

“Okay, we’ll do as Ren suggests,” he said at last. “Unless Eric has different orders for us.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. Perhaps you feel like challenging Faramir to yet another duel and want us to ride to Emyn Arnen.”

At that the steeds were halted. For a few instants neither sound nor movement disturbed the Marshes. The air was still, asphyxiating, and as tense as though a storm was brewing among the Riders and thunderbolts might at any moment spark from one to the other. A couple horses nickered and pawed in the gathering restlessness.

At last the strained calm faded as the leader’s voice broke the spell.

“Lead the way to that farm, Ren.”

“Yippeeee!”

Southwardly the nine Riders started at a gallop. The _glub-bub-glob_ of hooves became a more solid _clippity-clop_ as they struck firmer ground. Every living thing that came across their path would promptly fly, hop, or crawl away, in search of environments less dread-rich.

Unseen to eyes either mortal or immortal, the mind of one of them was in tumult.

_What was that duel thing?_

That hadn’t sounded like the Khamûl he had known for ages. The old Kham could jest and bully with the best of them, but never would he have thought of injecting such sass into his order-giving. Too well he knew that informality in command was liable to wreck discipline.

As miles after long miles were left behind, it slowly dawned in the Nazgûl Lord that he couldn’t keep on ignoring the mûmak in the room. The truth was plain and simple: his girl was living in another guy’s house. Sooner rather than later he’d have to put his foot down about it, or risk losing altogether the respect of his men.

And that of his woman as well.


	13. The Queen's Thimble

### Chapter 13

#### The Queen’s Thimble

The coach jolts and rattles on its way through the Pelennor Fields, where the scars of the great battle still show. Here trenches were excavated; there the wheels of a siege engine digged deep furrows; yonder a gigantic beast left footprints that become ponds when the rain floods them.

Emelin chatters about the road, and about the weather, and about this and that; but Éowyn isn’t listening. She stares through the window to a spot near a mound.

_That is where we first met._ And at that the noises and smells of the battle come wistfully back to her.

On the distance, Minis Tirith stands tall and white, an extension of the mountains behind its back. Scaffoldings are still about it, but its majesty is undiminished. Éowyn last saw it nigh a year ago, when King Elessar and Queen Arwen said their marriage vows. She regarded them in unfavourable conditions, fleetingly and from afar, and through a screen of tears. Ever has she found weddings so moving! And that one was specially so, for she had started dreaming of her own. She pictured herself with a rich veil. And her groom would probably need to wear one as well, lest people started wondering where his head had gone. But what a veil it would be! Something worthy of a king, held in place by his crown, bedecked with ruby eyes gleaming dotingly at her. No one would pay mind to the fact it was not his real face.

But even with every care, she was resigned to the fact that a measure of ill regard would be inevitable. Always someone is ready to belittle someone else’s happiness for their own petty pleasure.

_They’re just jealous. I’m sure it happened even when the King and the Queen got married. There was bound to be at least a couple of those among so many._

The royal wedding had been multitudinous. People from every province and territory of the kingdom had gathered for the momentous occasion. Mordor itself wan’t absent, for some swore to having spotted Orcs in disguise; but those were likely to have crashed the reception only for the free food. The throng pressed against her, and she wished to be nearer the altar to take a better look at the bride’s gown. And to see if she was as pretty as it was claimed.

Part of her wishes are about to come true as the gates of the city open for her coach. The inspection of bridal apparel will have to be further postponed; but the Queen, she has been told, will meet with her in private.

Her lodgings are more spacious and comfortable than her chamber at Emyn Arnen. She takes her time to freshen up and change her clothes, and then an usher shows her the way up a tower to the Queen’s sewing room.

Windows all around overlook the fields and the untrod high vales. Light is rushing in and the shadows have no corner to dally. But what really brightens the place is Arwen Undómiel standing in its centre.

No exaggerations are the tales about her fairness. Truly she is a star in the shape of a woman; Lúthien Tinúviel of legend come again. Her face is as the face of the sun, except that hers can be beheld without tearing up, save from joy that such a face exists in the world.

And the beauty of her soul shines through the beauty of her bodily form and adds to it, for she reaches for Éowyn’s hands and welcomes her:

“Hello, sister. I have heard so much about you.”

“My Queen…” She fumbles for words. “My Queen, I am most honoured.”

“Please, call me _Arwen_. Or _sister_ , for sisters we are.”

“I wouldn’t presume to do so, my Queen; unless that is your command.”

The Queen’s laugh is a compendium of harmonious, soothing sounds. It’s like the clear singing of a mountain brook, like silver bells jingling in the wind. If everything that is pleasant to the ear could be distilled to its purest essence, that essence wouldn’t sound very different from Arwen Undómiel’s mirth.

“I command you nothing,” she says. “It’s not for me to do so, for I am not above you.”

“Not above me!” Éowyn can hardly conceal her wonderment. _You are so far above me as your astronomical namesake is above the earth, and I can’t less marvel at you than at the celestial Evenstar._ “You are the Queen!”

“No, I’m not. Perhaps I might be, if Gondor _had_ a Queen.”

“But… Gondor _has_ a Queen. And that’s you. Isn’t that right?”

No reply Arwen Undómiel makes but to smile sadly and wearily.

“Sit down, my sister.” She picks up her needlework and sets down upon a settee of hand-carved dark wood. “Sit down and tell me: Can you give me a full account of the kings of Gondor?”

“Of course!” Eagerly Éowyn seizes the chance to easily entertain the Queen and perhaps grow in her esteem. With no delay she starts reciting the litany she learned as a child under her tutors. “Elendil, Isildur and Anárion, Meneldil, Cemendur, Eärendil, Anardil—”

“Good! Good. That’s enough. Now, can you give me a similar account of the _queens_ of Gondor?”

“Uh… Galadwen.”

“And?”

“Galadwen and… Er… Galadwen?”

“So, you can name over thirty kings from Elendil to Eärnur. I don’t doubt you’d also be capable of summarising the rule of each of them, if I’d ask you to.” She never lifts her eyes from her work, as if speaking offhandedly about something of little consequence. “On the other hand, you have heard of _one_ queen. And only because her blood started a civil war.”

“Well, I’m sure their names are all in the books.” Éowyn endeavours to salvage the tatters of the argument she has found herself unexpectedly making. “I mean, nearly every king was the son of the previous king. So each must have had his queen. I suppose.”

“You suppose.”

“Berúthiel,” she adds lamely, her memory suddenly jostled. But her late addition can’t be heard, so soft her embarrassed voice comes off.

“Your supposition is exactly my meaning,” the Queen says. “ _Queen of Gondor_ is an empty dignity. There is no Queen. There’s only the wife of the King.”

“Well? What more could a woman desire?”

“Freedom? Happiness?”

“Oh.” For a few long seconds, the gentle rustle of the needle coming in and out of the cloth trailing white thread is the only sound. “Aren’t you happy with the King?”

“Happy!” The Queen shudders as if overcome by chill. “Have you seen him? Have you seen him _naked_?”

“Erm… Can’t say I have.” _Once upon a time the idea crossed my mind, but then thought better of it._

“His body is ridded with scar tissue, and his hands are hard with calluses. He’s as rough as tree bark. And _rough_ he is in other senses of the word as well. Thence my private name for him. _Alagorn_. Impetuous tree.” She puts her needlework aside and stares through a window, as if lost in thought. Éowyn, not sure what else to do or say as she never expected a disertation on the monarchs’ conjugal life, confines herself to simply examine the work. She can only describe it as a white splotch on a dark green background.

The Queen sighs, her gaze fixed on a spot far away, as though she were looking at the space left vacant by something that used to be there. “I married well beneath my station.”

“Uh… I don’t intend to contradict you, but… You married a _king_.”

“I married my _cousin_. All the wide world and all the long years to make a choice, and I had to marry my baby cousin who plays with swords.”

“But… Didn’t you give up the life of the Eldar for his sake?”

“He said he wanted us to grow old together. _You_ try to say no to a man.”

_Believe me, I have tried._ She finds herself momentarily transported to Ithilien and shivers with remembered hunger and footsore.

Yet she won’t give up. She can’t let the suggestion stand that unending love fades as autumn leaves.

“However, the minstrels sing…”

“Minstrels sing about maidens with stars in their hair and moons that are always full while their wives wash their smallclothes and deal with their children.”

“Yet… Yet there had to be a time when you did find him… Well… _Marriageable_.”

“Oh, yes. I remember our betrothal in Lórien. He didn’t look half shabby, all in white and silver and a gem on his brow. He reminded me of someone I spent a summer with, long ago.”

“You… spent a summer with?”

“My dear sister, I’m pushing three thousand. You don’t think I spent every minute of that time plucking flower petals, do you?”

While saying this, she recovers the needlework from the side table where she had left it. _It’s a horse._ Éowyn has managed to unravel the shape of the white splotch, and can no longer not see it for what it’s supposed to be. A galloping horse the Queen is embroidering, perhaps as a tribute to her visitor. Never has Éowyn seen a living horse so like to a frog. _Well, I guess trees and crowns are easier than horses._

Part of her mind, however, is still mulling over the latest words.

“You don’t love the King, then?”

“Of course I love him. I love him dearly. But to love someone is not the same thing as to wish to be someone’s wife.”

This stops all her thoughts in their tracks. A mighty blow it is, and she needs time to catch her mental breath. Had she been assured the sky is tartan, she wouldn’t feel any more baffled.

“But… But surely to be someone’s wife is the pinacle of love. Isn’t it?”

“Do you think so? Well, I can’t fault you. You’re young and your head is full of youthful nonsense. Sooner or later you’ll have a change of heart. Sooner, I hope.” A loud sigh escapes her lips and her eyes seem to have lost some of their bright. “Sometimes I wonder why anyone would wish to be a wife at all.”

“Why would anyone _not_ wish to be a wife?”

No answer the Queen gives but drops the needlework on her lap and raises a single finger. Metal glints on its tip. “Do you know what this is?”

“It’s… It’s a thimble.”

“A _mithril_ and ivory thimble. It is unique, and very old. A veritable piece of art. Can you see the leaves and flowers engraved on it in such minute detail?” She inspects it as though she never saw it before. “It belonged to the last ten Queens of Gondor, and now it belongs to _me_. The dignity may be empty, but is not without its perks.”

“It’s beautiful.”

“Isn’t it? Other wives can’t boast of having such a thing.”

Éowyn holds her peace. She can tell the Queen is not done talking. There’s a biting edge to her tone. And surely enough, after a short pause she goes on:

“Do you know what else other wives can’t boast of? _Not having a thimble_.”

“I… I’m afraid I don’t follow you, my Queen.”

“A thimble is a _manacle_. Some of these manacles are made of _mithril_ or gold; others are humbler brass or plain bone. But in the end, a manacle is something to affix a chain to.”

“How can it be a manacle? You can simply remove the thimble!”

“Can you? Would a good wife remove her thimble in defiance? Of course not. A good wife is devout, and selfless, and laborious. Either in a tall white tower or a ramshackle hovel, a wife bows her head and _keeps sewing_.”

Éowyn would challenge those assertions if any fight were left in her. She only manages to sit there, her expression aghast and her shoulders sagging. Her imaginings of gowns and veils have acquired a bitter taste, and their bright colours are now somber and washed out. The gleam on the ruby eyes is no longer doting, but _menacing_.

The Queen notices something of this, for she says:

“Do I make you uncomfortable? _Good._ Comfortable prisons are not for the prisoner’s benefit, but for the gaoler’s peace.” She is now looking straight at Éowyn, and there’s a cold and hard light in her eyes that doesn’t belong in one of so fair a race; yet something of the melancholy of the oldest Elves is there as well. “It’s too late for me, but there might be yet hope for you. You’re still free, and full of dreams… and of love. If you allow me to give you advice, my sister, take heed of this: Don’t let them twist and poison your love. For love is the mightiest power on the earth, and as most any power it can be used both for good and for evil. So be vigilant, or they’ll turn your heart against you and make you love your chains.”

“But… What you say is so bleak and disheartening! You’d have me believe all men are wicked!”

“No.” Her staring eyes are as ruthless and relentless as her words. “They’re not wicked. Most aren’t, at any rate. _And that’s the worst of it._ Open wickedness can be resisted; it can be fought and ultimately vanquished. But wickedness that shows a kind face may be tolerated; it may even be _embraced_ as something good, something to strive for. Remember, my sister, that the Dark Lord himself caused the most damage when he put on a fair appearance and passed his accursed gifts as blessings, and many who were not evil ended up serving his purposes.”

It’s still day when Éowyn leaves the tower, but a heavy darkness has fallen upon her soul.

The courtyards and streets are full of light, and life, and cheer; yet nothing of it brightens her mood. Around her there’s a bustle of anticipation: servants come and go hurriedly carrying clothes, and food, and assorted party gear; and the motley, chaotic sounds of musicians tuning their instruments an rehearsing their pieces give the hubbub an air of tense expentancy. A thousand things and one need still to be made ready for tonight’s event, and everyone is looking forward to it.

Everyone but Éowyn, for she’s dreading the coming of the night. A dark moonless night she feels it will be, to match the night already shrouding her emotions; a cold night without the faintest hope of sunrise.


	14. Ball Night

### Chapter 14

#### Ball Night

It’s a magical night. The sky is moonless, yet strewn with stars; and strewn with stars is the gown Éowyn is putting on. Music comes down the Citadel, where the Ball is starting; and music is also in her soul.

Forgotten as a bad dream are the poisonous words of the Queen. Nothing but a wince does their memory bring to her now. Isn’t she a shieldmaiden of Rohan, strong and undaunted? Didn’t she love her _dwimmerlaik_ , and faced the wrath of her lord and kin, and the scorn of her race, to be near him? And didn’t she love Aragorn before him, and took sword and helm to ride in secret to war on the off chance of meeting him and going _fancy seeing you here_? So, after all she has gone through in life, will she let the harsh words of an old woman stay her on the brink of happiness? For an old woman the Queen is, despite her unfading darkness of hair and her eternally fresh face. Her beauty is only skin deep, whereas the rot of her heart stinks to high heaven. Dead she has it; black and shrivelled as a decayed apple whereupon maggots feast. But when the heart is alive, and warm, and beating… Then such love as it is capable of cannot be held by stone or iron, let alone the ill counsel of bitter hags.

_More than just bitter she will be this evening,_ Éowyn dreams as she turns this and that way in front of the looking-glass, stars wheeling around her. _She will choke on her bile, because_ I _will be the Queen. The Queen of the night!_ Her crown is a tiara of lapis and burnished silver, and she wears matching necklace, bracelets, and earrings. Her feet are snug in shoes of new, supple leather. The shoemaker raced against the clock to have them perfectly suited to her. She paid him extra for the rush job, but it was well worth the price. Now she wishes she had learned earlier those debt bonds could come in so handy. She keeps a bundle in the bottom of her luggage in case of an emergency.

And also in case of an emergency, she carries the velvet-enveloped vial in a pouch sewn to her petticoat.

“You are gorgeous, m’lady!,” Emelin marvels. “Why, you could be taken for the Queen if you hair weren’t a diff’rent colour! I tell you, no less’n half a dozen lords and knights will ask for your hand tonight.”

“Oh.” Those words have given her something new to ponder. “Should I turn them down?”

“Sorry, m’lady?”

“Because what if I turn them down and then Faramir fails to propose? I might walk out empty-handed! I should take the first marriage proposal I get.”

“Uh… I dun think…”

“But, on the other hand… What if take the first comer and then Faramir _does_ asks me to marry him? Oh, Emelin, what should I do?”

“Stoppin’ shakin’ me would be a nice start, m’lady.”

“Perhaps I shouldn’t outright reject them, but… Men know _no_ means _maybe_ , right? Boys around Edoras were quite persistent about that.” Frantically she paces the chamber to and fro.

_Just breathe, Éowyn_ , she soothes herself. _Breathe and think. Isn’t that the kind of emergency you’ve prepared against?_ As she turns, her eyes alight on Emelin, and for the first time she notices her dress. It is offensively pink and overrun by frills. “You… You look well,” she says, and somehow contrives to sound as though she meant it.

“Thank you, m’lady.” Emelin curtsies ungainly. Her legs are not made for it. “I dressed prop’rly to be your maid tonight.”

“My maid?”

“O’course! Every lady at the Ball will have a maid to hand them dainties, and hold their hanky, and… Well, that kind o’ stuff.”

“Oh.” Now the word _emergency_ is taking shape again in her mind. “Oh, no! I should have bought a gown for you.”

“Oh, no, no, m’lady,” Emelin laughs. “You dun want me to outshine you, do you? Not that I could, but better not take any chances.”

“But… How will it reflect on me if I show up in a new gown and my maid—?”

Emelin is shaking her head. “You dun understand. I’m _supposed_ to look ugly.”

“You do? Why?”

“To make you look prettier in compare, natch’rally! D’you think I’d be caught dead wearin’ this to a reg’lar party?”

“Oh.” Éowyn is starting to think she ought to have inquired how these royal balls are supposed to go.

“Yes. That’s the way of it.” Emelin freezes, her face lit with an idea. “D’you know what we need? A flower! A flower for the hair!”

“Hum… I don’t know. Do you think a flower would look good next to this tiara?”

“I was meanin’ _me_ hair.”

“Oh. Right,” Éowyn says. Whoever’s hair that might be for, it can be easily arranged. A garden lies before the façade of the lodging-house. They can pick up a flower on their way out. “What will it be? A lily? A carnation?”

“A sunflower more like, I was thinkin’.”

“A sunflower?” Éowyn grows still as she tries to picture that.

“Yes! It’ll make me look partic’larly odious next to you.”

“Where will you find a sunflower?”

“A famous artist is lodgin’ in the garret room,” Emelin says. “I met his servant today. His master was paintin’ a vase o’ sunflowers, he tole me. I’ll talk to him ’bout borrowin’ one of his models.”

“Alright, but be quick about it! The usher will soon come for us.”

“Yes, m’lady.” As Emelin leaves the chamber, Éowyn hears her muttering to herself in the landing: “Who gets famous paintin’ sunflowers? They’re awful!”

Alone in the room, Éowyn takes a last look upon herself on the mirror. She’s not anxious. She has gone beyond anxious to a place where anxiety is so inhumanly intense that it becomes a different kind of serenity.

_I will indeed be the Queen. The_ real _Queen of the Ball! And I shall not be dark, but blonde and full of light! All shall love me and despair!_

_And Faramir too._ Especially _Faramir_.

The bells of the Citadel ring the hour. Their sound is clear in the night air, rising above the distant music. _The time has come. Long and hard has been the road, but I am here._ Absent-mindedly she brushes off a blonde hair fallen on the gown. _Nothing can go wrong now,_ she encourages herself. She lifts her hands to set the tiara perfectly straight upon her brow; and as she does so, a rip under a sleeve shows on the mirror, and she can see nothing else.

“Oh, Gods!,” she shrieks. “Where did that come from?”

_It’s alright,_ she tells herself, trying to take the sensible approach. _It’s only a rip. A very small rip. Easily fixed. We have black thread and needle. Emelin will mend it in a minute. And what’s taking her so long, by the way? She’s chit-chatting with that artist’s servant, most like. Doesn’t she know time is of the essence? I’d better go fetch her._

Resolutely she paces towards the door and pulls it open, and her heart freezes. Out of a sudden the rip on the gown is the least of her concerns.

“You!” She steps back, horrified.

A tall and broad man strides into the chamber. Clad in mail he is, and swathed in a dust-stained cloak; and a brazen helm is tucked under his arm. His long flaxen hair and his moustache are braided, but the braids are loose and frazzled after his long ride.

_No. Not now! Not tonight!_

“My lady Éowyn.” Éothain, captain of the Riddermark and Éomer’s trusted man, bows before her. “Éomer King, Lord of the Mark, bade me meet you beyond the Great River, but I was told there you were to be found here in Mundburg. And he also bade me give you this.”

“What’s this?” With shaking fingers she unfolds the piece of paper he hands her. Éomer’s penmanship quivers upon it with barely restrained rage:

> _Ithilien? What jest is this? My men have been raking the fields for days! Nary an hour’s sleep have I had this last week. Didn’t I plainly say that you had no leave to leave without my leave? You will at once come with Éothain to Edoras and obey his every command as my own._
> 
> _No. Scratch that._
> 
> _You will obey his every command BETTER than you obey my own._
> 
> _Your king and brother,_   
>  _Éomer_
> 
> _P.S. You and I will have a SERIOUS conversation upon your return._

“But surely…” Her eyes darken and her spirit sinks, yet desperately she tries to latch on to a sliver of hope. “Surely this can wait till the morning, right?”

“The night isn’t old yet. We can ride a few leagues before setting camp.”

_No. Not this night. Just give me this night, please!_

As collectedly as she can manage under the circumstances, Éowyn considers her options. _The window!_ The window isn’t barred, and it’s wide enough for her to slide through, crinoline and all; but a two-story sheer fall lies beyond. Vaguely she remembers a cornice, and a drain-pipe, and a climbing ivy perhaps strong enough to hold her weight… Yes, she’s willing to risk it. _It’s not like a broken leg would keep me from dancing tonight._ She only needs to get Éothain out of the chamber for an instant.

“Can I at least change? I’m not dressed for the road.”

But Éothain is unyielding, and her swift acquiescence rouses his suspicion. “There is nothing wrong with your raiments, my lady.”

“What? You can’t tell me I can ride in this! Will you at least let me—?” And at that a beam of hope shines in the growing gloom. So sudden is the idea that she needs a few seconds to gather her wits and speak again. “Will you at least let me take my luggage?”

“Hum… I suppose arrangements can be made, if it isn’t too burdensome.”

“Oh, no! It’s quite light. But… Look! It’s on top of this wardrobe.” She stands on her tiptoes and stretches her arm as high as it will go. Her fingers waver in the air, hopelessly out of the chest’s reach. “Will you help me?”

Éothain is none too willing to step up to the task. She can read upon his hesitating countenance that Éomer has given him special orders. Probably something along the lines of: _If she gives you the slip, you will lose body parts_.

“Oh! I’m such a small and weak woman”, she says reassuringly. “I couldn’t hope to match the strength of a big man of the Mark. Because the luggage is so heavy, I mean. But not too much! Not too heavy for a horse. Just for me.”

But vain her words are. Éothain just stands on the spot, muscles tense, doubt upon his face.

“Won’t you help me?,” she asks pleadingly. “The sooner we depart, the sooner you’ll discharge your duty. Here, I’ll hold your helm.”

That moves him into action. He’s still wary, but not so much so as to not surrender the helm to Éowyn’s seizing hands. And that done, it’d be awkward not to reach for the chest overhead, if only perfunctorily. So that he does, and for a moment his back is turned to her.

She examines the helm that now lies in her grasp. It is large and heavy. The crown is wrought in the shape of a horse’s head, and the crest is like to a flowing white mane.

“Your helm is beautiful, Éothain! Is it sturdy as well?”

“As sturdy as it needs be,” he answers without turning, labouring to haul the chest. “Why do you ask?”

Sturdy it certainly is. It neither chips nor dents when Éowyn brings it down on Éothain’s head.

_It’s a good thing you sent someone else, Éomer. It would have broken my heart to do this to you._ The helm falls and bounces by the hulk of Éothain lying insensibly on the floor. Éowyn wastes no time but gathers her dress and bolts out of the chamber.

_Faramir_ , she repeats to herself as she hurries down the flights of stairs. _I need to find Faramir_. Once he learns about the situation, everything will be fine. The Eorlingas won’t dare challenge the Steward of Gondor. He’ll be able to at least delay her departure. _That’s all I need._

The street-door beckons her to its rectangular embrace of freedom. The outside will offer a measure of safety, for Éothain knows not the lay of the city. Neither does she, for that matter; but it’ll be better, she surmises, to be lost on her own, than to be certain of her whereabouts in the company of her brother’s watch-dog. The fanlight shines as a beacon, and towards it she runs.

But upon the threshold her hope dies. A couple of city guards hold her in place. They’re gentle, but also firm and stern.

“I’m sorry, my lady,” one of the guards says. “You are not to leave your lodgings except with the Rohir gentleman who came looking for you.”

“You can’t stop me,” she protests. “I am the Steward’s guest!”

“Our orders come from the Queen,” the other guard retorts.

_That witch!,_ she cries on the inside. _Is she so resentful at life that she needs to destroy other people’s happiness to feel better?_ She struggles to loose herself, but the grip of the guards grows tighter the harder she wrestles.

It’s too late. She hears footfalls coming from inside the house, and as she turns she sees Éothain staggering drunkenly towards her, a pained grimace on his face and a hand rubbing the top of his head.

“Are you alright, Lord Éothain?,” a guard asks him.

“Yes. I’m well.” There’s more puzzlement than reproach in the look he gives Éowyn. “The lady’s luggage fell on my head as I was trying to retrieve it. I should have kept my helm on.”

“Will the Lady take her luggage, then?”

“No. She has decided to travel light. She’ll send for it afterwards. Isn’t that right, my lady?”

Éowyn has quit her struggle. Her will leaves her and she hears her own voice answer: “Yes.”

Éothain at her heels and a guard on each flank: in that undignified fashion she walks down the circles of Minas Tirith towards the Gate. Passers-by come across her way, and old folk watch her from windows and doorways; and they all visibly grieve to see her so forlorn.

A score of riders await on the field, some atop their steeds, some holding their reins. Not a full _éored_ , but still more than such an undertaking as this demands. And among the proud and sinewy stallions of Rohan stands incongruously the oldest and fattest mare Éowyn has seen. It has been harnessed with a lady’s saddle such as she hasn’t used ever since she was but a child, and on her gentle, dull eyes she can see the words _it’s for your own good_.

“This is Hefig,” Éothain says, patting the animal’s matted coat. “She’s reliable and sure-footed. She won’t let you fall.”

_And she won’t let me flee,_ Éowyn despairs. Such a beast wouldn’t break into a gallop if the Dark Lord himself wanted it for the knackers of Mordor. And even if it did, it couldn’t hope to outpace but the laziest among the horses of the Riddermark. Her keepers aren’t taking any risks. Not another chance of escaping will present itself.

Hefig is white under the starligh, but no blacker horse has Éowyn ever mounted. Her spirit crumbles as she sets foot on the stirrup.

“Forth, Eorlingas!,” Éothain yells, high upon his own horse. His voice drowns the music, now scarce to be heard. “We ride to Edoras. We ride to hearth and home.” Encouraging words they’re meant to be; but to Éowyn’s ears they couldn’t sound grimmer.

A moonless night spans the heavens above; and as she casts her gaze down, yet another moonless night meets her eye. The gown she expected to bring awe to Faramir is now but a blanket set upon the dumb beast that is bearing her away from him. Her long-suffering heart can’t endure any more, and at once it gives up and shatters.

_Forth, Eorlingas,_ she weeps silently. _Ride. Ride to ruin and the world’s ending._ For Éowyn’s dreams and hopes lie in ruin now; and as far as she’s concerned, the world might as well have ended.


	15. A Light by the Road

### Chapter 15

#### A Light by the Road

This country is called Anórien, and Dunlending in the tongue of the Mark. Both names translate the same way into the Common Speech: ‘Land of the Sun.’ Yet no sun shines on this land, for a heavy layer of cloud conceals the sky, affording the scenery a drab, dreary look. And just as drab and dreary the weather is inside Éowyn. The riders around her are stern and grim, and when they speak at all they speak softly among them, and for a very short while at a time. They are all grief-stricken to see their lady in such a pitiful state. And pitiful she looks on the outside as well as on the inside: occasional showers have wrecked her hair and her party gown, and now they both hang lank and listless, and smudged with dust. Raindrops roll down her cheeks and wash the grime off her face. Raindrops only, for she has run out of tears.

The transit through the Firien Wood engenders an atmosphere even more like to her spirit. Mighty oaks cast their green shadows on the puddle-riddled road, and only a strip of grey sky is visible through the foliage. No sound of bird or beast cheers the melancholy air. Only the rustle in the wind among leaves unnumbered Éowyn hears as a whispering: a whispering of solitude and heartache, of growing old and dying lonely and unloved.

_Now he’ll come_ , she’s been telling herself the last countless miles. _He’ll draw his sword and say: “Stop, cruel jailers! Let this woman be, for I love her.”_ She’s not certain which _he_ she’s thinking about. She has the vague feeling that being deliberately ambiguous about her fancied rescuer doubles the chances of his appearance. Still, not a great math-savviness is needed to reckon that twice near-zero is still near-zero.

Wretched Éowyn! Her own brother, whom she loves above all else, have caused her a pain greater than any foe could hope. Sharp steel and blunt iron she can parry; but against this blow dealt professedly for her own good there is no defence.

Darker the world has grown as the company egresses from the forest, and through the unbroken clouds the sun can be guessed falling towards the western horizon. Yet even in the gathering gloom, Éowyn espies a light. It is the light of a campfire lit on the roadside; and its reddish glow illuminates a great ox-chart. A solitary figure squats by the blaze; it stands up as the riders approach, yet doesn’t manage to make much of a difference in height. A coarse Dwarvish cloak dyed blue is draped on its shoulders, but beneath it Éowyn makes out fine clothes of many colours. And she has seen that red beard before; only back then it was carefully arranged in scores of braids, and now it flows freely, silken and smooth as if freshly brushed.

“Reg… Regin?”

“My lady!,” the dwarf exclaims, and a mixture of recognition and surprise coming to his face. No, _her_ face, Éowyn remembers. “I didn’t expect you to see you again so soon.”

Éothain’s puzzled look leaps from one to the other and back. “Have you met this dwarf before, my lady?”

“The lady and I had a brief polite talk back in Emyn Arnen,” Regin makes haste to explain.

“Yes,” Éowyn grants her endorsement. “Very brief. Nothing of any consequence was discussed.”

“No,” the dwarf adds. “Nothing at all.”

“Just the usual chit-chat between two—”

“ _Cough. Cough. Cough._ ” Suddenly Regin seems to have gotten a frog stuck in the throat. A very large, poisonous, spike-studded frog, by the look of it. “I’m sorry. I’ve got allergies.”

“But who are you?,” Éothain asks.

“Oh! I beg your forgiveness. I haven’t introduced myself.” Boots click together preceding a courteous bow. “I am Regin son of Thorin, at your service.”

“Thorin? Thorin Oakenshield?”

“That’s a different Thorin,” Éowyn tells him.

“My father was a humble delver.”

“You must surely know, Master Regin,” Éothain says, “that when you crossed the stream that flows through the woods you entered the lands of the King of the Mark, and none can travel here without his leave.”

“Oh, but I _do_ have leave,” the dwarf replies. “Good King Thengel gave it to me a long time ago.” An old, yellowing paper finds its way from a pocket under the cloack to Éothain’s hands. “See? It’s good until 3053.”

“I see,” Éothain murmurs holding the paper before his eyes. If not for her sombre mood, Éowyn would laugh heartily at his strenuous efforts to hide his inability to read. _Perhaps I should tell him it’s not supposed to look that hard?_ But instead she turns to the dwarf, her curiosity kindled.

“How did you get such a long permission from the King?”

“Well… Once I got him a certain blend of powdered roots, ground leaves, and a few other things. And… Well, let’s just say that nine months later his first child was born.”

“I see,” Éothain repeats. His brow is thoroughly furrowed at the undescifrable handwriting.

“Is all in order, my lord?,” Regin asks him, clearly suspecting something. “Is aught amiss?”

“Hum… No, it’s alright.” Éothain returns the document to its owner, judging perhaps that there’s no reason to pretend literacy to the point of herniation. Only Éowyn notices the relief upon his face. “Would you mind if we set up our camp here, Master Regin?”

“Certainly not! I will sleep better in such company.”

And without further formalities the men build their bivouacs and their lean-tos around the wagon and the grazing oxen; and they release their steeds to wander freely upon the prairies, confident in the knowledge that horses of Rohan, when left to their own devices, are ever loyal to their troop, and the troop-leader never fails to heed his master’s call, even from afar. When night falls, Éothain sets lookouts around the camp. Éowyn knows that that watch is less against intrusion than against escape.

_Let him have it his way_ , she thinks. Because for Éothain’s vigilance, he has missed a spot, and she intends to seize the chance with both hands. It’s but a thin fissure on the walls, but through it she can already descry the clarity of the coming dawn, and breathe the fresh air of freedom.

The fresh air of freedom smells as stew. A pot of the stuff is bubbling over the fire. Regin sits nearby on a fallen log, spooning the content into her mouth.

Uneasiness steals upon the dwarf’s face when Éowyn approaches. “I’m sorry, all sales are final.”

“What?”

“Look, I don’t make those philtres, alright? I only sell them.”

“Oh.” Suddenly she is aware of the light weight of the pouch sewn to her petticoat. “But… I never got to use the philtre.”

The dwarf’s countenance promptly relaxes into a smile. “Well, in that case, pray tell: What can I do for you, my lady?”

“I was—” But her sentence is cut short and her eyes narrow. “Why did you say that? Is your philtre a sham?”

“Oh, no! Not at all! Never a complaint. Stew?”

“What? Oh, yes! That’d be nice. Thank you.” Éowyn sits down and takes the bowl Regin hands her. “As I was saying, I was impressed by your tale about Thengel King. It could be said that the House of Eorl owes you its continued existence.”

“Oh, that.” Regin flicks a hand in a gesture of slightly embarrassed dismissal. “I was only doing what I always do. The King was very thankful, however.”

In silence Éowyn swallows a couple spoonfuls of stew, mustering courage for her next move. Then she leans towards her companion and almost under her breath she says: “You know… There’s something you can do that would put the House of Eorl even further in your debt.”

“Yes?” Gold glitters in Regin’s eyes. “What is it?”

“You see… I’m headed for Edoras, but not willingly.” She looks cautiously around, to make sure no unintended ears catch her words. “The King wants me in his hall. These gentlemen are to make sure I go there.”

“Really? That’s… That’s _wrong_. I would have expected it of King Fengel back in the day, but not of King Éomer. He’s widely known as a gentleman.”

At this Éowyn shakes her head. “You don’t understand. I’m his sister.”

“His sister? That’s even wronger!”

“It’s not like that. He’s my big brother and cares for me. Perhaps too much. I’m being escorted because I got into trouble of my own making.”

“Oh. That’s different. What did you do?”

“I ran away from home with someone he doesn’t approve of,” Éowyn answers averting her gaze. “Put myself in deadly peril. And issued public debt.”

“Yes, all that is liable to get a big brother cross. But why are you telling me this?”

“Well…” Éowyn endeavours to find in herself the boldness to go on; yet her voice is inaudibly thin when she continues: “You… You have a big wagon, and I thought…”

Regin doesn’t need to be told any more. “Oh, no,” she refuses. “No, no. I won’t do that. No can do. There’s no way I’ll defy a King.” For a moment she remains silent and severe, as if her mind is firmly settled. “Not for _free_.”

“I can pay you.” Anguish strangles Éowyn’s voice.

“Can you? How?”

“I… I can write you a bond!”

“A bond?”

“Yes! A debt bond against the Crown. I can do that. I’m the King’s sister. I have done it before.”

“Oh, yes, that’s a great idea. I just need to go to the King and tell him: _Hello, my lord, how are you? Kindly cash this bond I got for helping your sister evade you_. Nothing can go wrong.”

“I have… I have jewels! Look!” Feverishly she shows the necklace and the bracelets she hasn’t removed since she left Minas Tirith. But Regin won’t even look at them.

“Jewels?” Regin screws her face. “Have you ever tried to sell jewels off the back of a wagon? Watchmen are liable to want a word with you about robbers. And _robbers_ will want to chat with you too. Usually over a nice bludgeon.”

Éowyn feels herself inch ever closer to the edge of her despair. “How about my gown? I can give you my gown!” The matter of _what will I wear_ she leaves for a better moment.

“That ruin you’re wearing?” She holds the frayed hem with assessing fingers; and only now Éowyn realises that the deep black has faded into a mousy grey. “Perhaps I could sell it as rags to a paper mill. And the crystals aren’t worth much on themselves. I wouldn’t get out of bed for this, let alone harbour a fugitive.”

Only one card Éowyn has left, and she loathes herself for playing it, but she’s all out of options. _I’m sorry. You’re forcing my hand._ In a voice that crackles as the fire licking the wood, she whispers:

“And what would you do to protect your secret, _Regine_?”

At this the dwarf stiffens. Her hair and her beard seem to bristle. “You wouldn’t.”

“I’m desperate.”

“Desperate? You don’t know what _desperate_ is. You have no idea what’s like to be female out there!”

“Uh… I’m female, you know.”

“Yes, but not _out there_!” She’s yelling as loud as one call yell while technically whispering. “Half the people I know would never bo business with a woman! And not just any woman, but a woman who lied about it.” Wrath is quickly turning into despondency. “Great Maker, I would never be able to sell a shoestring again.”

“Well, it looks like I _do_ have something of value,” Éowyn forces herself to say.

“This is blackmail.” There is a harsh light in Regin’s eyes.

“I don’t like this any more than you do. But I can’t face Éomer. Not now. He’d lock me up till I’m ninety.”

The dwarf sits still, as one turned to stone. For a few long moments she deliberates with herself; but finally she gives in. “Alright. Listen…”

And Éowyn listens. The scheme is simple; as simple as stowing away in a merchant’s wagon can be. Yes, it’s also risky, but no more so than the alternative. And in any case Éowyn is past caring about any hazards, for her very life is at stake.

Yes. Her very life indeed. For she knows that if she ever sets foot in Meduseld, even if she lives, she will die.


	16. The Road Goes Ever On

### Chapter 16

#### The Road Goes Ever On

Éowyn is not comfortable. The wagon is large, yet more cramped than she remembered it to be among the crates, the baskets and the pieces of furniture. The air is stuffy under the pile of blankets.

The worst, however, was the fear.

Tension had been growing; even through her cover she could feel it, as distinctly as one feels the charges build up on the hair of the arms before a thunderstorm. She heard the riders speaking, which words she knew not. Only Regin’s yells she could make out with any clarity:

“Huh? What was that, me good lord? What? Owinn who? Oh! You mean the blonde gel who… No, never got her name. What? You misplaced her? Well, the King won’t be happy about that, will he…? Me waggon? What ‘bout me waggon? You serious? But I’m makin’ fer Edoras meself! Not a sharp tack of a fugitive, innit, one who hitches a ride with someone bound fer prison, right? What? Well, if there’s no way ‘round it… And while yer here, p’raps I can interest you in a new scabbard fer yer sword? Oh, no, no trouble at all! Jest let me find it fer you… Oh? No, you say? Well, how about a new buckle fer yer belt? Well, how about a couple shoes fer yer lady, then? An eastern rug fer yer hall, p’raps? I got a bird with golden feathers on a cage. You jest gotta see it… What? No need to check me waggon, you say? Oh, yeah! Yeah, good idea. You do that. Yeah, look fer her afield. But hurry up! She’s gettin’ away! Yeah, fare thee well you too, me good lord. Yeah. Yeah, good luck with it.”

So the storm never broke out, and by grades she has regained calmness as the galloping hooves receded. _That was close._

A long time has gone by since. Hours perhaps; she has no way of telling. There is no sound now but the creaking of the axles and the singing of Regin:

> _The road goes ever on and on_   
>  _Far over stream, and marsh, and knoll._   
>  _A long way have my items gone,_   
>  _And I must sell them! Sell them all!_

Ultimately Éowyn grows weary. Weary of remaining motionless, of hardly breathing lest she make any noise, of having her flesh prodded by hard edges, and pokers, and drawer pulls. _She’d let me know when danger has passed, wouldn’t she?_. And she answers herself: _Oh, yes! If someone blackmailed me, I would make sure to see to their comfort._ So she waits no more, but pushes the blankets away and gingerly picks her way to the front. There the canvas is open to the air and the light of day.

> _On wheels squeaking round and round,_   
>  _I journey far to buy and sell_   
>  _To city great, to humble town,_   
>  _And whither then? I cannot tell._

“Oh! There you are,” Regin interrupts her tune and looks into the wagon upon noticing movement behind her. “So, your name is Owinn?”

“ _Éowyn_. But my friends call me Wynnie.”

“All right. Éowyn.”

“Uh… How about Éothain?” Éowyn’s blonde head peeps out and cautiously looks around. “Have we lost him?”

“Éothain.” Slowly the dwarf repeats the name, as if tasting the sound of it. “Éowyn. Éomer. Éothain. Is there a law?”

“ _Éo_ means _horse_. Have we lost him or haven’t we?”

“Yes! Yes, we lost him! Éothain and his éolads should be far away by now. Are you happy? You can come out.”

But Éowyn won’t come out. She hides behind the flaps of canvas, as though eyes were everywhere and simple birds could betray her.

“Um…,” she hesitates. “Tell me something, Re— Er… How should I call you? Regin or Regine?”

“Call me Reggie. Everyone does.”

“All right. Reggie… Did I hear you’re headed for Edoras?”

It seems to Éowyn that Reggie mumbles under her breath before answering. “Oh, I’ll make it to Edoras. Eventually.”

“Eventually?”

“On my way back, possibly. Right now I’m skipping most of my usual stops. I’m trying to be on time for an appointment.”

Éowyn is awash with relief. But the relief is promptly tainted by concern; the kind of concern only the absence of immediate worry can bring forth. “Oh, I hope you’re not running late because of _me_.”

More mumbling meets her words. Then: “Naw. It’s not you. It’s these stupid things that couldn’t go any slower if they tried to.” The lash cracks over the heads of the unflappable oxen. “Faster, Thranduil! Faster, Celeborn!”

Éowyn stands shocked, unable to believe her own ears. A few moments pass until her brain can catch up with her senses. “You named your beasts after great Elf-lords?”

“Suits them, eh?,” Reggie replies simply. “The grey one is Celeborn. The spotted one is Tranduil.”

“Are you aware one of your animals bears the name of the grandfather of the Queen of Gondor?”

“Well, the Queen doesn’t need to know, does she?”

“What if anyone asks about their names?”

Reggie only shrugs. “It happens every now and then. I just give out their fake names.”

“Oh.” Éowyn remains silent for a few moments, coming to terms with the notion that an ox might have use for a pseudonym. “What are those names?”

“Isildur and Anárion.”

“How is that any better?”

“Men have a weird pride to have dumb beasts named after their dead kings and heroes. I know a farmer in Lossarnach who calls his ass _Elendil_.” She turns and looks straight at her. “Why don’t you come out and sit here? It’s more comfortable.”

“Are you sure? What if we meet Éothain?” She tries to look ahead, but sees only the oxen plodding along a winding path between cliffs overgrown with shrubs and heather.

“He won’t come this way,” the dwarf reassures her. “This is a mountain trail known only to smugglers.”

“And how do you know about it?”

Again Reggie looks into the wagon. Her stare could behead an Orc. “Well, I _am_ smuggling something right now, am I not?”

“Oh.” Éowyn blinks. Still she’s wary, but the wagon isn’t exactly snug, so she makes to come out. “Well, if there really is no danger—”

“Wait! You can’t come out dressed like that.”

“Huh?” Éowyn looks down self-consciously at her gown, ravaged by ride and weather. It has lost many of its crystals, and those still clinging to it look dimmed. “Why not?”

“Well… Men of the King don’t know this way, but robbers might. And if they see your gown…”

“But you said it’s worth nothing!”

“I know that, and you know that. But do the robbers know that? Too late they may come to realise their mistake.” She points inside to an old pinewood chest wedged between a writing desk, a couple armchairs and an iron umbrella stand. “There’re clothes in there. See if you find anything that fits.”

She does find, indeed, a dress that fits. That fits her body, at any rate, if not her mood. In point of fact, she doubts it’d fit _anyone’s_ mood. Every inch of it is patterned with large roses, each rose a different hue. The dressmaker has compiled a veritable catalogue of every bright colour roses shouldn’t be. The whole might be called an eyesore if the eye could manage to focus long enough to be sore by it. Éowyn is thankful no mirrors are at at hand.

In any case, she has no time to contemplate fashion. A more distressing task is ahead of her.

Tears pool in her eyes as she shreds her black dancing gown. Sob after sob stifle her breathing as she picks out every remaining piece of crystal. Through pain and sorrow she toils; and in the end she has a serviceable rough square of black fabric. _A shroud for my dead dreams._ With it and a length of twine she improvises a bag for her jewels. Tiara, necklace, earrings and bracelets she solemnly stashes within; and on top of all she lays the velvet-wrapped vial, her most prized possession, as valuable as gold and now tarnished by misery and regret. Her life is reduced to that dull makeshift purse.

A few minutes the procedure takes, yet Éowyn is drained as by a long funeral. She is numb and feels nothing, either external or internal, save the swaying of the wagon. _How long will my mourning last?_ But life must go on: there is light outside, and warmth, and a singing dwarf. And thither she goes, yet not before tying her hair back as tightly as she can contrive and covering it with a straw bonnet. The brim, she hopes, will protect her from easy discovery by anyone coming across her path.

“That’s much better,” Reggie nods approvingly as Éowyn settles next to her. “No robber will want _that_.”

Éowyn shivers, and suddenly the turns of the road unseen behind the shoulders of the cliffs look more ominous. “Do you often run into robbers?”

“Not too often, thank the Maker. Anyway I keep a couple loaded crossbows under the seat.”

“Isn’t that dangerous?”

“Yes, for the robbers it is.” A belly laugh bursts forth. “Hah! You should see my cousin Sindri’s wagon. It’s got _Sindri’s Emporium_ painted on it. It’s so garish you can see it coming all the way from Umbar. No wonder both his cart and his purse are often empty!” Then, upon noticing only she is laughing: “So… Have you decided where you’ll go?”

_East_ , her instincts say. There exists, however, the inconvenience that the wagon is heading _West_. And in any case, her instincts are not all in agrement.

_Faramir must be vexed_ , a part of her says. _Just imagine! Up and dissapear like that while he’s waiting!_

_Maybe, but I still have the love-philtre_ , counters a different part of her, still hopeful beyond hope.

_But what if that doesn’t work?_ , the first part argues. _What if he sends me packing to Éomer himself? That’d be more hurtful than anything so far!_

_What about Minas Morgul?_

_Minas Morgul? Run to that toe rag who deserted me? Who deserted me_ twice _?_ _Never in an entire age of the world!_

_Oh, gods. I am really alone in the world, am I?_

_You can say that again, me._

“I… I haven’t thought of that,” she answers at last.

“Well, you’ll have to think of it sooner or later. I can drop you off near some village—”

“No!” Her yell comes out louder than she intended. “No… I can’t be seen in the Mark. Someone might know me.”

“Well, I have to drop you off _somewhere_.”

“I know. Uh… How far are you going?”

Reggie doesn’t seem to care for the implications of the question, yet still she answers. “My last stop is Endeburg. Have you ever been there?”

“No, I haven’t. Where is that?”

“The Gap of Rohan. Technically it’s beyond the King’s lands.”

“That will do,” Éowyn answers morosely. _For now it will. Leave later for later_.

She’s not so deadened with grief so as to be oblivious to the dwarf’s sidelong stare. “So, I’m stuck with you till the end of the journey, eh? Oh, well. I guess I shouldn’t be too inconsiderate with one paying such a lofty fare as you are.”

“I’m very sorry it came to that,” Éowyn cringes, remembering the previous night.

“I’m very sorry too. I suppose that makes us even.”

“Really? You’re not cross, then?”

“As I only now said, I’m stuck with you. I might as well make the best of it.”

“Great! So… Friends?”

“Don’t push it.”

And for a while that’s the last word spoken. The ceaseless creaking and the wind soughing through heather and bramble mark the threshold of silence, interspersed with the occasional chirping of birds. Tatters of cloud sail under the sun, dappling the landscape with drifting shadows.

Then, perhaps weary of the quietude, Reggie starts singing again.

Éowyn doesn’t join her, not being in the disposition for song. Even if she were, she knows not the words.

Her dejected heart, however, finds inspiration for her own rendition, which she intones voicelessly to herself under her breath and her suppressed tears:

> _The road goes ever on and on_   
>  _In darkest night, in gloomy day._   
>  _Now in the world I am alone._   
>  _And where I’ll go? I cannot say._


	17. Before the Dark Throne

### Chapter 17

#### Before the Dark Throne

The archway was tall and broad, and menacing as a hungry maw. The keystone was carved in the shape of an evil face, all horns and fangs and forked tongues. The double doors that barred the way seemed to swallow the torchlight as it fell upon them; the red gleam reflected dully on the black iron was never more than was enough to hint at the frightful reliefs, which were themselves naught by an omen of the horror lurking inside. No windows in the antechamber opened to the outside; but torches held on sconces as corpse-like hands cast a poor glow for the benefit of such servants of the Dark Lord as couldn’t find their way in utter darkness.

And one such servant was hunched over a desk at least three sizes too big, scribbling notes and shuffling papers.

“Hello, Zoe,” the Lord of the Nazgûl addressed her.

“Oh! Hello, Eric!” The diminutive Orc looked up at him through her hand-held seeing-glass. “Lovely to see you.”

He had to smile. Only Zoe could say such sentence to a Ringwraith and mean every word of it. He had long wondered, however, how she managed to tell the Nazgûl apart. Not even _he_ could tell the Nazgûl apart.

“Lovely to see you too. How’s your back?”

“Not so bad when Mount Doom is not in eruption. Thank you for asking, dear. Are you here to see the lord?”

“Yes, I am. I have an appointment, as a matter of fact.”

“Yes! Here you are,” she quickly scanned a list with her seeing-glass. “The lord will see you promptly. He’s talking with someone right now. You don’t mind waiting for a bit, do you, love?” She reached for a tray that lay on the desk and lifted the lid. “Here, take a cookie meanwhile.”

“Thank you!” Many things the Morgul-lord was capable of doing: he could strike fear into the hearts of his enemies with his mere presence, and he could shatter any blade that attempted to slash his flesh, poisoning its wielder with a cold slumber of death; but he couldn’t say _no_ to Zoe’s cookies.

“Yumm, Zoe!,” he rejoiced, politely pressing a sleeve against his lips. To someone with his overly clear complexion it didn’t make much of a different whether he chewed with his mouth closed or open. “These are really good!”

“Oh, bless you, Eric! I was worried because I didn’t have enough ginger left for this batch. My kids will bring some when they come home from Ithilien next week.” Then, in one of her changes of topic that sometimes left him dizzy, she asked: “How is Mister Akhôrahil’s health?”

“Hilly? Hilly’s fine, as far as I know. Why do you ask?”

“Um…” A look that said _I shouldn’t have asked that_ stole over her wizened face, and she started fidgeting with a pencil. “Well, he… Last time I saw him he… He complained of… of a certain ailment, and I… Uh… I talked to him about certain herbs and leaves…”

“Oh.” The recent trip to the farm cow came suddenly to his mind. He remembered Hilly unaccountably picking up weeds and asking if any of them was butcher’s-broom. And come to think of it… Hadn’t he been shifting uncorfomtably on his saddle, as if in pain?

 _Oh boy_ , he thought. _Kham is going to love this for his morale-building exercises. It will be a_ riot _of morale._

Zoe lost no time to change the subject again. “And how is Mister’s Adûnaphel mum’s?”

“Still dead, last I heard.”

“Oh, dear. When did that happen?”

“Four or five milennia ago, I think.”

“He never mentioned that! He just told me how disappointed she was by him.”

“Yeah, I have heard it all. _I didn’t raise a son to become a thrall of the Lord of Mordor_. That kind of stuff.”

“He looked so mortified about it.”

“That’s Addie. He just can’t let bygones be bygones.”

“Oh, lordy.” Zoe looked very discomfited. “I hope I didn’t say anything troubling to him. You know how we old folks are. We rely on chit-chat with other people to bring us news about the world, and sometimes we talk more than we should.”

 _And I love you for that, Zoe_ , he thought, and finished his cookie. He almost choked on it when again she swerved into a different conversation:

“Pray tell me, dear, how’s with you and that lady from Rohan?”

“Huh? How do you know about that?”

“I’m a secretary, dear,” she grinned. “I deal with secrets.”

 _Yes. But your job is supposed to be to_ keep _secrets, not to share them._ A barely audible groan passed through his throat. It was very well for Zoe to stick her nose in everybody’s business, as long as that _everybody_ didn’t happen to include him.

“So… When will you make a decent woman out of her?,” she asked with a big, fangy smile.

 _Are you joking? After all the trouble I went through to make her an_ indecent _one?_ But Zoe was the wrong age and the wrong gender to understand such things. Or to understand that, after such intimate developments as had transpired when he last met Éowyn, he needed to lie low and make himself scarce for a while, lest she grew clingy and demanding.

 _But not too scarce_. Faramir’s shadow still loomed on the horizon. He’d need to eventually confront Éowyn about that. _If you will live with a man_ , he’d tell her, _you’ll have to choose._ The right answer, of course, was for her to live with her brother. Not with _him_ , naturally. That wouldn’t be conducive to anything good.

Nothing of the kind, however, he said to Zoe. She was liable to side with Éowyn. Women and their cabals.

“Umm… We’re still getting to know each other,” he answered uncommitedly.

“Well, why don’t you bring her over some day so we can know her too? See, I think the lord would love to meet her.”

“Would he?” He cocked an eyebrow, and wondered if Zoe would notice it in his tone.

“Oh, yes.” Leaning forward she added in a whisper: “I think he summoned you to ask you to be your best man.”

“Really?” He eyed the closed doors, heavy and forbidding. “I thought it’d be something related to the war.”

“It’s about you and your girlfriend. Trust an old woman’s nose.” She sounded quite confident. “Why don’t you sit down, dear? He’ll see you soon.”

So he did. He settled on a stone bench, brushing crumbs off his mantle. But Zoe’s words still echoed in the back of his mind. What if she was right? The Dark Lord had never been happy about his affair with the sister of the King of Rohan, but so far had refrained from broaching the subject openly. Were things about to change? Well, if push came to shove, he’d do what he always did and shove the matter aside. A sizeable collection of exes accrued along the centuries had accorded him a vast expertise on dodging troublesome issues.

Not a long time had elapsed before the doors swung open. They scraped heavily against the flagstones, moved by unseen wretched creatures inside the walls, and a man walked out. Tall the man was, and his grey hair was cropped close to his elongated skull. He was clad all in black, according to the dress code of the Dark Tower; and a lofty helm was tucked under his arm.

 _Oh, no. Not him._ The Nazgûl Lord stood up the instant he saw the man. He would not have him towering over him. And towards him the man strode in a leisurely, nonchalant manner, as though he had to come that way anyhow.

“Hello, Eric,” the newcomer said.

“Hello, Mouth.”

The Mouth of Sauron bore a very appropriate name/job description, for his mouth was the only part of his face that ever moved. And that only to speak: never a smile, a wince or a frown twisted his stiff features. The rest of him could be said to be dead; and as those of the dead his eyes were, ever dim and glazed, peeping out under heavy, swollen lids.

And when he spoke, an eerie monotone came out; if his throat were a musical instrument, it would have only one string. Perhaps that was why Sauron had chosen him to be his herald and ambassador: no inflection was liable to ever sully the purest essence of any message. Before he settled for his servant’s current name, the Dark Lord had for some time called him _Text To Speech_.

He had the dictinction of being among the few living things on Arda that could give a Nazgûl the willies.

“So,” the Ringwraith said after an uncomfortable silence, “how’s the boss?”

“The Dark Lord is in a dark mood,” Mouth answered. “I almost feel sorry for you. Almost.”

“Whoa. That is one big _almost_ coming from you.”

“I can cut it down to your size if you find it too much to bear. We all know you shouldn’t be laden with burdens too taxing.” And, after a meaningful sniffle which was the closest he ever came to emoting, he added: “Like your job, for example.”

“My job? What do you mean, my job?”

“Oh. You know not why the Dark Lord has summoned you?” Mouth cleared his throat in that manner those who spent time near him learned sooner or later to recognise as akin to laughter. “Well, you’ll find out soon enough. Supposing, of course, that you are capable of such thing as finding.”

Mouth couldn’t see Eric’s face, but he wouldn’t fail to notice the edge on his voice.

“Do you really think it’s a good idea to taunt the Lord of the Nazgûl?”

“I wouldn’t presume to know. Tell me, Zoe, has any good idea ever been sighted in the proximity of the Lord of the Nazgûl?”

“Nozzle?,” Zoe answered. “What nozzle? Sorry, dear, I seem to have left my ear trumpet at home.”

 _Again_. For a moment he reflected on the fact that he had yet to see that ear trumpet she kept misplacing. But what he said was:

“Don’t get over yourself, Mouth. Remember who you’re talking to. I was a shadow of dread on the hearts of men long before the breed of sheep was bred with whose wool the nappies were weaved that your great-grandsire soiled in his infancy. It was _me_ you read about who brought war and ruin to the northern kingdoms of the Dúnedain.”

“And you lost.”

“I _destroyed_ the northern kingdoms of the Dúnedain!”

“You still lost. Yes, I read about you. I read how you ran away.”

“That was—”

“Not that I’m belittling it. It was an impressive feat for someone of your age.”

“My age?”

“Second one, I seem to remember. Unless you’ve been lying about it out of vanity. You do a good job of hiding your wrinkles.”

“Listen to me, you—”

“And nappies aren’t generally made of wool. One would think that in all your long years you’d have have time to crack a book open, Grandpa.”

He clenched his fists. “Are you sure your name isn’t _Lip_ of Sauron?”

“You’re so funny, Eric. I will write that one down to make sure I remember it.” He rummaged among the folds of his cloak; but what he pulled out wasn’t a pencil or a notebook but a watch, and upon it he read the time. “It’s a pleasure to chat with you. But, if you excuse me, some of us have a job to do.”

And then, his watch put safely away, he lifted his helm in both hands and donned it on his head. A sudden wave of ease and relief washed over Eric now that those dead eyes were concealed behind the visor.

“Nice to see you, Eric,” he said and, holding his cloak, turned around and walked out of the antechamber.

“Yes,” the Nazgûl Lord mumbled through his teeth as soon as the messenger of Barad-dûr left the place. “ _Nice to see you_ to you too.”

“Eric? The Lord will see you now,” Zoe announced.

“Huh? Oh, yes. Thank you, Zoe,” he said and traversed the doors, that slammed shut behind him.

The dark throne had been hewn from a single huge piece of basalt. The arm rests and the lofty back were carved into grotesque shapes, nightmarish likenesses of creatures that would have sent an ordinary mortal man screaming. And upon it a darkness sat. A thick darkness it was, denser than any earthly fog; and although its boundaries were hazy and uncertain, it gave when looked upon sideways, through the corner of the eye, a vague notion of arms, and legs, and a head; but also of spikes, and blades: a large crown made of sharp edges. A ghastly mockery of a king of Men.

And out of very deep inside that darkness, as if from the bottom of a well, unseen yet ever felt, the Lidless Eye stared at him.

“Come forth, Eric,” the darkness commanded. “Tarry not at the door, but come unto My presence.”

“My— My lord.” Eric bowed repeatedly as he stepped into the chamber. “Is your shroud of darkness smoother today? I swear I was just saying to Mouth, _Have you noticed how smooth the shroud of Saur—_ ”

“ _Thou shalt not use My name in vain!_ ”

“Oh, sh— Er, I mean… I’m sorry, my lord,” he apologised in a piteous voice, grovelling on the floor. “I’m so sorry.”

“How long hast thou served Me? And still thou knowest not!”

“I’m really very, very sorry.”

“I mean, _sheesh_!”

“It will never happen again, my lord. I am your most faithful servant.”

“I wonder.” An unsettling change came over the Dark Lord’s voice. “A faithful servant would have brought Me a mighty gift.”

“Oh… Yes…” He got back on his knees and then his feet, yet there was still a fawning air about his bearing. “About that…”

“What hast thou to say? My patience groweth thin, I forwarn thee. I crave a thing yet get naught but excuses.”

“Oh! No, my lord, no excuses. Just—”

“Yes?”

“Just… Are we sure we have totally ruled out the possibility that the Men of Gondor have the Ring? I mean, we have looked everywhere—”

“I speak _not_ of the Ring.”

“No? But you always—”

“Yes, yes. I _do_ crave the Ring. Truly even now thou shouldst be searching for it.”

“He, he. Well… I can’t exactly be searching while—”

“But now I speak of a _different_ thing.”

“A… different thing?”

“Shall I give thee a hint? Were this thing within My grasp, a mighty foe would surely bend to my will, for it is precious to them, and the kingdom of the Men of Númenor would lose a great ally.”

“Hum… You know, perhaps—”

“Needest thou another hint? This thing is _blonde_.”

“Oh! See, that why I wasn’t getting you. This _thing_ is not actually a thing, but—”

“Silence! Now heed My command. Thou shalt take the Lady Éowyn, whom thou lovest, and bring her into My dungeons. A simple errand it be. Simple enough even for thee.”

“Yes, but—”

“Verily I say unto thee, if this be not done when the moon is dark again, I shall cast thee whither even thou shalt know weeping and gnashing of teeth. And…”

Eric gulped. “And…?”

“And I shall give thy job to Mouth.”

“Mouth? But Mouth isn’t a Ringwraith! The guys will never accept him.”

“They shall accept that which I bid them accept. For are not the Nazgûl slaves to the will of the Lord of the Rings? And am I not the Lo—? Uh… Yes? What is it?”

Eric’s head turned towards a small side door that had opened to admit Zoe into the chamber. In one hand she carried a cup of water, and in the other a platter with a white pill upon it.

“I’m sorry to interrupt, my lord,” she said. “But it’s time for your medicine.”

“Already? Canst thou not wait till I am done with Eric?”

“As you wish, my lord. But remember that if you let pass too long, your missing finger starts throbbing terribly.”

“Oh. Thou art right. Curse Isildur! I shall visit My wrath upon him and his heirs to the… Uh…”

“Thirty-ninth,” Zoe said helpfully.

“To the thirty-ninth generation! _At the very least!_ And thou, Eric…”

“Yes?”

“Thou knowest what to do. Begone!”

The affair wasn’t easy on the mind of the Nazgûl Lord or his conscience. He pictured his Wynnie in fetters deep in a dank dungeon, surrounded by death, anguish and pestilence; and he hated the idea. But he didn’t hate any less the idea of Mouth taking his place.

And, to complicate matters even further, he had his men to think about.

An excruciating battle he wrangled with himself as he descended the long stairs of the Dark Tower. Hard and agonising the struggle was; but by the time he arrived to the sheds where the winged beasts where stabled, he had already made his choice.

 _I will seek Éowyn_ , he said to himself. _I will find her. And then…_

_And then I’ll do what I should have done a good while ago._


	18. Interlude in Gorgoroth

### Chapter 18

#### Interlude in Gorgoroth

“Look! A Nazgûl!”

Thrug lifted his eyes from the boiling pot. His gaze followed Krumab’s pointing finger, and against the backdrop of thick, dirty smog he descried the barely visible winged shadow flying away from the gloom-shrouded Dark Tower.

But Krumab’s sign wasn’t for him. It was meant for Rau’s benefit. So again he hunched over the pot and stirred the lamb and potatoes that were cooking within. _Yes. Lamb and potatoes. Cling on to that idea._ It wouldn’t do to think what _really_ was in the pot.

“My first Nazgûl!,” Rau marvelled in his guttural cave accent. His eyes glowed in the murky light.

“Soon you’ll get sick of them.” Illska was sitting on a rock, her lips and teeth red with the Núrn sweet-root she was chewing. Red stains weren’t an uncommon sight upon Illska.

But Orcs weren’t a kindred of plant-eaters, and the root, no matter how sweet, was obviously not substantial enought for her; so she next turned to Thrug and, as if continuing the same conversation, snapped: “How long till that mess is ready?”

“Soon, Miss Illska. Very soon,” Thrug answered. “Just you be a bit patient and you’ll be shortly licking your fingers.”

Rau flashed the grin of the rookie who thinks he’s already part of the group. “Your girl is fierce when she’s hungry, huh, boss?”

Krumab choked on a dry throat. “My girl? _Her_?”

“ _Skai!_ ” Illska spat on the fire. “I’d sooner kiss an Elf.”

“And Illska would sooner _skin_ an Elf than kiss him,” Bagûrz chuckled.

“She’d be quicker about that, too,” added Ufûrz, his twin.

Rau looked puzzled at Illska. “But if you’re not the captain’s girl, then why are you here?”

_Uh oh_ , Thrug thought to himself. _You started with the wrong foot, Mister Rau_. He was uncomfortably aware of how close at hand Illska’s scimitar was, and how her fingers were clenching and unclenching, itching to reach for the hilt.

A shiver ran along his spine. Too clearly he remembered what had happened when it ocurred to Dorr to taunt Illska. His stomach retched with the memory of what was in the pot that day.

But Krumab remembered that too, and apparently didn’t feel like another serving, for he quickly intervened:

“Illska is here because she can butcher, skin and carve up an Elvish warrior in forty seconds flat.”

“Yes. But why?” Whatever talents Rau had to recommend himself, ‘ability to take a hint’ wasn’t among them. “Did Elves kill your family? Did they abuse you?”

To Thrug’s relief, as well as everyone else’s, Illska chose to strike with the sharp edge of her tongue.

“Why do you ask?,” she said. “Did Elves abuse _you_?”

“What? No!”

“Then why are you here? Why did you come all the way from Moria?”

“Well… It’s known that an Uruk can make a career here in the armies of the Dark Lord. See the world and that. Moria is too provincial.”

“Good job you have the right body parts to make a career.” She fingered the dark blade resting next to her against the rock. “For now.” An instinctive flinch overcame those who were within earshot.

Rau was taken aback, and just sat wordlessly while the others sniggered. _He doesn’t know how lucky he is to be still in one piece,_ Thrug thought.

But Rau, judging from his countenance, didn’t feel lucky. He looked embarrassed and sullen. And now he seemed to think Thrug was a safe target for his frustration.

“What about you?,” he asked him. “You don’t talk much. Thrug is your name, right?”

“No, sir, I don’t talk much,” Thrug answered. “ _If you have nothing good to say, you don’t say nothing_ ; or that my old gaffer used to go about. And you may call me Thrug, if it pleases you. That name these fine gentlemen and the lady gave me some time ago.”

“But that’s not your name?”

“No, sir, it ain’t. My name’s Samwise. Or Sam, if you like.”

“That we call him,” said Krumab. “Sam Thrug. Sam the Murderer. He killed Her Ladyship.”

“Yeah! You don’t want to mess with him, Moria boy,” Bagûrz warned with a teeth-baring grin. But Sam said:

“I didn’t kill her, begging your pardon, Master Bagûrz. I just maimed her.”

“Still impressive.” There was a tone of amazed respect to Illska’s voice. “We wouldn’t have believed it, but he was clutching Her severed claw when we found him.”

“He wasn’t even aware he had it,” Ufûrz remarked. “He was stunned, wandering aimlessly. We took pity and kinda adopted him. When we found out he wasn’t an Uruk, we were already attached to him.”

“You aren’t an Uruk?” Rau had traded most of his hostility for genuine curiosity. “What are you then? A Man?”

“No, sir, I am not a Man. I am a Hobbit of the Shire, far from here.”

“A Hobbit of the Shire? Never heard of that. What are you doing here in Uzgbúrz?”

“I came with my master on an errand. But I lost him.” At this tears came unbidden to his eyes. “I lost him on the mountains.”

“Her Ladyship ate his master,” Krumab said.

“Yes, sir.” Sam wiped his tears. “I mean, no sir. I heard it told as she et him, but that ain’t the truth. She did stung him, though.”

“That’s when he attacked her,” Illska said. “The brave fool.”

“And he won!,” Bagûrz laughed. “Mostly because he didn’t know he _couldn’t_ win.”

“He attacked her with an Elvish blade. Can you believe it?” Ufûrz grimaced at that. “We had to explain to him: _Thrug, decent people don’t go around carrying Elvish weapons_. Then we outfitted them with a proper warrior kit.”

“Not that he’s any good with it,” his brother commented. “We can’t spare a master whenever we need him stoked for battle.”

“Ah, but we have never eaten better.”

“Yes! There’s a reason why we keep him around,” Illska said as she bit off another wad of root. “Just one more day of Bagûrz’s poison and I would have eaten _him_ instead.”

“Whenever you like, beauty,” Bagûrz blew her a kiss. That, as usual, got Sam pining for the time when he _hadn’t_ seen an Orc blow a kiss.

“Thrug works harder than any of these maggots,” Krumab stated matter-of-factly, looking at no one in particular. “A good spade is as much of service to a unit as a good sword.”

“You talked about coming on an errand,” Rau pushed on.

“Yes, sir, I did. I tried to complete the errand on my own, but couldn’t.”

“Lucky for you,” Ufûrz snickered.

“But what was it? What errand is worth risking the hunger of Shelob?”

“Well… huh…”

“Why don’t you tell him, Thrug?,” Krumab chuckled. “He had something for the Dark Lord. Isn’t that right?”

“Uh… Yes, sir.” His exact words had been _we got something the Dark Lord wants_. Which was technically true, and he expected would stop the questioning. Their curiosity, however, hadn’t been sated, and still they had regarded him with suspicion; and that same suspicion was now glinting viscously on Rau’s eyes.

“Something for the Dark Lord? What was it? He never told any of you?”

“Oh, we _guessed_ what it was,” Krumab said. “Right, Thrug?” And with that open laughter burst forth.

Rau glanced around, baffled at the sudden hilarity. “What’s so funny?”

“What’s so funny, you ask? I’ll tell you what’s so funny. We had never met one of those in the flesh!”

“ _Flesh_ he’d have a lot less of if he had made it!,” Bagûrz added.

Rau’s bewilderment was turning visibly into annoyance. “I don’t get it. One of those? Those what?”

“Once every other week or so,” Ufûrz explained, “someone comes knocking at the Dark Tower. _Look, sir, I found your Ring. Give me a reward!_ ”

“Yeah. Nice reward He gives them!,” said Illska, her red grin looking particularly ghastly.

Rau grew a sudden interest in Sam. “You have the Dark Lord’s Ring? Can I see it?”

“Why?,” Bagûrz asked, still convulsing with laughter. “You haven’t seen enough tin in your life?”

Rau wasn’t laughing with the others. His eyes followed Sam’s every movement, and there was about them a rapacious glint Sam didn’t care for.

“I’d like to see it anyway,” he said, and his voice carried the same hungry quality as his gaze. “Will you let me see it, Thrug?”

His shadow fell on Sam as he came menacingly to him, darkening the world. Instinctually Sam’s hand went to the treasure hanging from its chain and hidden under his tunic. _No! Mister Frodo died for this!_ But he knew there wasn’t much he could do. Rau frightened him more than the spider did. Back then he had had his sword and his unexpected bout of mad courage. Here only the pot bubbling over the fire stood between him and the approaching Orc; and nothing but a wooden spoon he had to defend himself.

Rau noticed Sam’s protective hand on his tunic. “You’ve got it there?” A gnarled claw reached out for his prize, or perhaps for Sam’s throat. “Come on, Thrug. I only want to see it.” The firelight stressed every crevice and furrow on his face, and his yellow, crooked teeth.

No one was laughing now. A deathly silence enveloped the scene, broken only by the crackling of the fire and the Orc’s ragged breathing. Sam’s left hand tightened its grip on the treasure, and his right clutched firmly the wooden spoon. _Well, if I have no choice…_ He was, however, distressingly aware of how ludicrous he’d look trying to beat an orcish trooper with a spoon, and how short he’d have to live if he did.

“I only want to see it, Thrug…”

In that very second Illska spoke. “Sit down, Rau.”

“Stay out of this, woman!,” Rau snarled, eyes intent on Sam. “This is men’s business, don’t you see? Just between me and Thrug. Right, Thrug?”

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Ufûrz warned.

“Why? What will he do? Chop my head off?”

“No, he won’t,” a voice rose icily behind him.

It was an instant, barely a flash to Sam, and only when it had passed could he see that everything had changed. One moment Rau’s evil eyes were looking down upon him, greed and malice seething in them. The next they were glazed over, looking up sightless from inside the pot.

Illska wiped the blood from her scimitar. “But _I_ might.”

“We told you not to do that, dude,” Bagûrz said, hurrying to kick the prone body away from the fire.

“Damn!,” Illska cussed. “I didn’t want my food so spicy.” She lifted the severed head from the pot by its lank hair, and for a long moment she regarded it, a growing air of disgust upon her face. “ _Skai!_ I don’t think even the desert rats will want this.” And with a swift motion of her arm she threw it out of the encampment. It bounced a couple times, leaving a trail of black blood, and at length it came to rest upon the dust, dead eyes blazing with reflected firelight.

“Well, that one didn’t last long,” Ufûrz remarked. “This is why we can’t have nice things.”

“That wasn’t a nice thing!,” Illska retorted.

“I was meaning our dinner. By the way, is that ready, Thrug?”

“Um… Uh… Yes, it is, Mister Ufûrz,” Sam answered. He couldn’t bear to take a look into the pot, but he knew better by now than to ask _are you sure you still want it?_

“Well, what are you waiting for? I’m so hungry I’d have a salad!”

So Sam got to spooning the steaming stuff into the bowls, knowing that once again he’d go to sleep on an empty stomach. Many things he had learned to overlook about the food. This wasn’t one of them.

“You won’t have anything, Thrug?”

“Um… I’m not hungry, Mister Krumab.”

Krumab shrugged. “Suit yourself,” he said, and his attention turned back to his meal. The spectacle of an Orc eating was a trying sight even for the healthiest appetite.

But in spite of everything, it wasn’t so bad here. Krumab and his folks were decent and kind. After their own fashion, of course, but not every master could be as good as his dear Mister Frodo had been. At least these people wouldn’t let anything bad to befall him. Unless it was them who caused it to happen, that is; but usually it was all in good fun.

All things considered, he could have done worse in Mordor. _Much_ worse. Yet here he was, alive, and healthy, and cared for, and well-fed. Most of the time, at any rate.

He felt almost… _home_.

And Mount Doom wasn’t too distant. Very often he could see the dense pillar of ash and smoke upon the horizon. Perhaps some day he’d be able to make his way there and be done with the errand.

Again his fingers clasped the Ring, heavy on its chain around his neck.

_And then, Mister Frodo, maybe I’ll find you again._


	19. The Last Town

### Chapter 19

#### The Last Town

The Isen is a cruel river: cruel on the body and cruel on the soul. This is where Théodred fell, and the memory of her beloved cousin is still fresh and raw in Éowyn’s mind. This is where many men fell as well, and she wonders whether the bones of all of them were claimed and buried. Ever so often her toes brush the smooth hard curve of a cobble on the riverbed, and every time grim thoughts shake her to the core. The idea of disturbing the rest of the dead unsettles her deeply. It unsettles her more than the likelihood of an Orc raid from the north, or a gang of vicious Dunlendings from the west.

More even than the chance of Éomer riding from the east.

But she can spare no time to fret about the hazards of either this world or the next one, as her present task demands her full attention. She’s holding fast to the spokes, partly to make sure the wheels keep on turning rather than get stuck in the mud, and partly to prevent herself from slipping and being carried away by the mighty current. Floating twigs and branches get caught in random eddies, hindering her progress; leaves stick to her clothes and her skin. The river is swollen, the water is cold, and Éowyn is annoyed.

“Why am I down here while you’re up there?,” she asks Reggie, cosily dry and perched on the driver’s seat.

“Just look,” Reggie answers. “You’re almost waist-deep. How deep would _I_ be? Dwarves and Men have differing opinions of what constitutes a ford.” The whip cracks. “Pull, Thranduil! Pull, Celeborn! Pull, lads!”

The beasts pull. The beasts struggle. Their muscles bulge and roll under their hides. A long hard labour it is, but at last their cloven hooves meet dry ground. They emerge from the river, their matted coats streaming muddy water, dragging the heavy wagon behind.

_It’s done._ Éowyn looks back at the wide valley as she catches her breath. _I have left the Mark. I have left home._ The words taste different now that they’re more than a mere idea. The sensation of being again running away as a rebellious little girl won’t leave her. _Now what?_

“Now you come up again,” Reggie says, as though answering her unspoken question. “I want to sleep under a roof tonight.”

Éowyn is thankful for the rest as the wagon resumes its westward trek. Her clothes slowly dry under the slanting rays of the sun. But with the resting the cramps arrive. She knows she’ll be awfully sore in the morning.

“How do you usually cross over when you come on your own?”

Reggie shrugs. “The fords get shallower about a quarter mile downstream.”

“What? Why didn’t we go that way?”

“Too much effort. Anyway, it wouldn’t have been much easier. I don’t get why the Lord of the Wesfold doesn’t have a bridge built over the river. I’ll mention that to him when I next see him.”

“Oh! You know Erkenbrand?”

“Very good customer! He always buys all my… Um… No, sorry, I can’t tell you what he buys.” Now for the first time she seems to notice Éowyn’s sorry state, and reaches under the seat for an odd-looking phial. “Here, drink this. It’s good after hard work.”

Éowyn accepts the phial with trepidation. It contains a dark liquor, not too different to the murky water she just waded through. And she mistrust its smell as well, sickeningly sweet as overripe apples. But she’s too weary to argue, and unthinkingly gulps down a swig.

The effect is almost immediate. She feels the strength returning to her arms and legs as a warm wave, the weariness fading away. She’s reminded of the foul draught the Orcs forced her to swallow back in Osgiliath, but this is better-tasting, and easier on the throat and the stomach.

“It’s good indeed! What is it?”

“It’s called _mund garan_. My cousin Sindri gets it wholesale off some Elves near the Hill Towers.”

“But… Don’t Dwarves hate Elves?”

“And Elves hate Dwarves. It’s a cordially requited loathing.”

“Yet, your cousin has dealings with them.”

“We hate _them_ , not their money.”

“Oh.”

“Yes. Gold and silver are innocent of our feuding.”

“But… Didn’t Elves and Dwarves fight over gold in the Battle of the Five Armies?”

“That was a _different_ gold. Don’t blame coins for the sins of their fathers.”

“Oh. I see.”

“Yes. It was only those blasted Elves. Curse them and all their descendants!”

The road goes on, in no worse state of disrepair this side of the border. It winds and twists around the southernmost shoulders of the Misty Mountains, the rocky summits a pale reflection here of their splendour farther north. The dusk is near at hand when they top a ridge and the distant smudge of a village comes into view.

“Is that our destination?,” Éowyn asks

“That’s right. Endeburg. The Last Town.”

“Why ‘The Last Town’?”

“Because it’s the last town as you come out of Rohan.”

“Oh. But what if you come the other way?”

“Then it’s the last town before you come _into_ Rohan. See? It works both ways.”

As they draw nearer, step after lazy step of the sturdy bullocks, the smudge grows into a dun-coloured stone wall encircling a sparse collection of thatched roofs. _Safety_ , Éowyn sighs. Safety, and perhaps a bathtub and a bed. _At long last._

But they never reach the gate. The inn sits on the roadside, a short distance from the town itself. A large sign hangs above the door, illuminated by a lamp. _The Last Inn_.

“This is the last inn both before the town and before Rohan, right?,” Éowyn guesses.

“You’re getting the hang of it! Here, take this.” Reggie presses a round, sparkling silver coin into her hand. “Go inside and ask Gytha for a room and some soup. It’s Friday, so it’s soup day. I’ll see to the oxen meanwhile.” But as Éowyn clambers down the wagon, she bids her stay. “Wait!”

“What is it?”

“I just thought… We can’t share a room.”

“Why not?”

“Because… Because people will think… You and I…”

“Oh.” Éowyn stands still for a moment, pondering. “See? That’s a problem you wouldn’t have if your secret weren’t a secret.”

Reggie eyes her, an unreadable expression on her face. “You don’t get out much, do you?”

“Why do you say that?”

“No reason. Well, I guess it doesn’t pay to be stingy. Here.” A second coin glitters redly in the dying sunlight. “Get _two_ rooms.”

Gytha is a large imposing woman behind a large imposing apron, a scarf keeping her red and grey hair off her face. To Éowyn’s surprise, she is from Rohan. Gytha provides Éowyn rooms and food, and also information.

“That’s right,” the big innkeeper says as she lays before Éowyn a couple bowls of soup and an ancient bread basket holding what appears to be its original bread. “Most people in Endeburg come from the Riddermark. Here they’re safe from the… Well… Let’s say the _disagrements_ they have with the authorities.”

“What kind of disagreements?”

“This and that. By the way, are you interested in buying a horse? Can’t be older than two.”

“Uh… No, thank you.” Through a window Éowyn catches sight of the lamps flickering atop the wall that shields the town, not a hundred paces away. It’s a good, strong wall. But the inn is on the wrong side of it. “Don’t Dunlendings ever come around here?”

“They do every now and then.”

“And how do you deal with them?”

“Cash only. Never credit. This’ll be two silver pennies, by the way.”

“What?”

“Unless you want to sleep with the window shut. That’s a copper extra.”

“Oh! Right. Sorry.” Éowyn surrenders the coins, which promptly find a nest in Gytha’s apron pocket and tinkling together make their way to the kitchen.

The place is mostly empty at this early hour. A table near the entrance, however, is crowded. About a dozen women sit around it, some eating, others talking and drinking, most of them laughing out loud in a most unladylike manner.

Éowyn can’t help but stare at them. It’s mainly their raiment that commands her attention. The evening is warm, but not _so_ warm so as to wear nothing but a chemise and a petticoat. _What if a man were to walk in and see them?_ Soon she has her question answered when a man _does_ walk in and sees them.

Well, not a man. But they have no way of knowing that.

“Hello, Reggie!,” they squawk.

“Hey, Reggie! It’s been a long time.”

“Hey, girls!” Reggie steps into the inn upon her high-soled shoes. “How’s business?”

“We’re lucky to be in a job and in a bed.”

“Hah, hah! I bet you are, Darlene.” With some difficulty she climbs onto the bench opposite Éowyn and fetches her soup. “You’ll never guess how much I just paid for a couple bags of feed for the oxen,” she grumbles at her. “Cursed things! I might as well feed them money and cut out the middleman.”

“Who are those women?”

“They?… Erm…” Reggie looks flustered. “They rent rooms.”

“Oh.” Éowyn scowls at that answer that only engenders further questions. “They rent rooms from Gytha? Or they rent them off to travellers?”

“Uh… Both. How’s your soup?”

“It’s good. So, we’re meeting someone here, right?”

“My cousin Sindri. I saw his wagon back there, so he must be around.” At that very moment the voices of the women fill the place again, yet somewhat warmer than before, not as shrill.

“Hello, Sindri!”

“Will you sing us a song tonight, Sindri?”

“Hello, lovely ladies.” The newcomer bows at their table. “My eyes! Have you grown more beautiful since last time? I’d swear you didn’t look this dazzling when I last saw you.”

“Oh, Sindri, you shameless flirt!”

Sindri is dark of face and dark of beard, and he’d be dark of hair as well if he had any beneath the golden wig. His lavish clothes make Reggie look beggarly in compare, and from across the room he smells like a pine forest.

“Elvish lotion,” Reggie tells Éowyn under her breath, a hint of disapproval in her voice. “ _Nen velva_. Vain preening dolt.”

“Hey, Reg!,” Sindri approaches. “I see you’ve got company. Pleased to meet you, m’lady. I’m Sindri son of Balin.”

“I’m Éowyn. Wait, don’t tell me. It’s a different Balin, right?”

“Different from what?”

“Oh. Never mind.”

“You’ve got company too, Sin,” Reggie observes. “Who’s your friend?” Sindri’s companion waits not to be introduced, but steps forward and takes the issue in his own chubby hands.

“How are you? Plump’s the name. Ricco Plump, of the Longbottom Plumps. Pleased to make your acquaintance.” Ricco Plump has about the same bodily proportions as Sindri, except that said proportions are differently ordered and placed. They could both be said to be equally broad across the shoulders, if Ricco’s shoulders were on his hips. Sandy curls frame his rosy face, and his bushy sideburns seem to go on under his tunic and his pants, reaching his bare feet.

But the thing most notorious about Ricco Plump is the pipe he’s smoking from. Its stem is so long he could carry it in his belt as a sword, supposing anything thicker than a pin could be tucked between his belt and his belly.

“Ricco joined me some time ago,” Sindri explains as they both take their places around the table.

“Master Sindri has been kind enough to allow me to accompany him,” Ricco trudges on. “Ever since I was a young lad I’ve been hearing about Mister Bilbo’s adventures. And then one day I was bored watching the planters plant and the croppers crop, and so I thought: _What the heck! I will have an adventure myself_.”

“And I told you,” Sindri says, “you won’t find much adventure in a merchant’s wagon.”

“Oh, yes? What about that innkeeper back in Bree?”

“Mister Butterbur? What about him?”

“He spent ten solid minutes haggling about that demijohn!” He turns to Éowyn. “They’re savages out of the Shire. Present company excepted, of course.”

Éowyn can’t help but laught, her dark moods fading. “The Shire, you said? I met someone from the Shire once. His name was Brandybuck. Meriadoc Brandybuck. Do you know him?”

“Brandybuck? I know Brandybucks all right. I’m related to them, you could say. My grandmother, Flora Baggins Plump, was second or third cousin to Drogo Baggins, who was married to… Hum… Rotula Brandybuck, I think her name was. Not that I see much of them. Weird folks those Brandybucks of Buckland are, if you let me tell you.”

“Did you say _Baggins_? I heard about someone named Baggins. And I remember someone named Took as well.”

“ _Pfeh!_ Don’t talk to me about those Tooks! They think they’re better than everyone else. My aunt Petunia was to marry Bradislang Took, but it came out that in her tweens she had had an affair with Tosco Trotter, the son of the weaver. They blew it out of proportion, if you ask me. It had been a totally innocent youthful idyll. You know how it is: Innocent walks in the countryside… Innocent skinny dipping in the pond… Innocent visits to the hayloft… That kind of thing. Nothing to call off a wedding about. Poor aunt Petunia! She grew old a spinster.”

“Why didn’t she marry the weaverson?,” Reggie asks him.

“Hah!,” Ricco clucks. “A Plump and a Trotter! That’ll be the day. What were they supposed to do? Weave rugs together? Till the earth, perhaps?”

“What’s wrong with earning a living with your hands?” There’s a hurt look to Sindri’s face. “My father was a cobbler in Náin’s Shaft, and he raised twelve children, he did!”

“Oh, nothing wrong with it! Nothing at all! I have the utmost respect for honest labourers. Why, some of them I count as more honourable than many rich folks I know! But you must own, Master Sindri, that there’s a place and an order for everything. There’s no more reason for a Plump to go to the earth than for a fish to nest on the branches of a tree, and saying so isn’t an slander to birds, is it?”

Sindri’s brow grows furrowed, as if deep in thought. “Your aunt was to marry a fish?”

“Haven’t you been paying attention?,” Reggie yaps at him. “His aunt _was_ the fish. It’s fish don’t till the earth.”

“Neither do birds, I reckon, ’less I’ve been looking at the wrong kind of bird.”

“It’s a metaphor, Master Sindri,” Ricco explains patiently.

“A _meterphore_? Never heard of such bird. Is it large?”

“Good job you’ve got someone to chat during the journey,” Reggie hastens to save her cousin further embarrassment.

“And a long journey it is!” He turns to Ricco. “If not for Reg we wouldn’t come so far South. No call for it since the Master of Isengard was thrown out.”

Éowyn sits stiffly at this remark. Théodred’s shadow falls again upon her. “You— You had dealings with Saruman?”

“He was my best customer! He’d buy as much pipe-weed from the Southfarthing as I could bring him.”

“Oh.”

“You can say that again! I’d also get him some odds and ends he needed for the wizarding business. I recall an odd request he had once. He asked me to get him charcoal, saltpetre and brimstone.”

“We got some of the finest stock from the Mountain for him,” Reggie declares with pride.

“And he paid handsomely for it! It’s a shame what happened to him. I’ll never turn my back to a tree again.”

“That Mister Saruman sounds like a great lord and a decent proper gentleman,” Ricco intervenes. “Someone like him would have been helpful last winter to deal with that Sharkey fellow. You missed the whole Sharkey fracas, Master Sindri! That Lotho’s head grew too big for his head, and he brought in a ragged old man to tell everyone how to run the Shire.” He puffs amusedly on his pipe. “For a time people were afraid of their orc-like ruffians. But in the end we got sick of them and showed them the way out, Shire-style.”

Sindri looks askance at the Halfling. “Were they anything like those orc-like ruffians I saw in your family’s property?”

“Oh, yes! Some of those gentlemen we keep around. They come in handy to keep the labourers loyal and things running smoothly. Not that we enjoy that, of course, but… You see, some of the labourers have been heeding those ideas peddled by rabble-rousers. You know what ideas I’m talking about: that they’re exploited, that means of production should be owned collectively… That kind of folly.”

“That last one doesn’t sound too bad,” Reggie opines.

“You too, Master Regin?” Ricco shakes his head, as though dismissing a very naïve viewpoint. “No offence, but you don’t appear to know how economy works. Let me give you a quick rundown. Take my family, for example. If we didn’t own the land, we couldn’t sell the produce in the market. If we don’t sell the produce, we grow poor. If we grow poor, we can’t pay the labourers. Then everyone ends up poor!”

“Makes sense,” Sindri says.

“It does, doesn’t it? Whereas the way things are, that is to say the _proper_ way, everyone gets their fair share. My family gets to keep their ancestral _smial_ with all the treasures and heirlooms it holds, and labourers get to keep their hovels.”

Éowyn is having trouble to keep pace. “So… you keep them loyal for their own good?”

“You have the right of it, miss. Also, it keeps those foreign gentlemen honestly employed rather than loafing about.”

“The goodness of your heart is inspiring,” Regin quips.

“Me,” adds Sindri, “it’s inspiring me to sell those gentlemen a few clubs.”

“There’s a couple truncheons in my wagon.”

“Gotta keep the economy running.”

“Our contribution to the well-being of society.”

“And speaking of contributions… Did you bring your journals and ledgers along, Reg?”

“You can be sure I did, old muttonhead.”

And at that the cousins clear the table and, heedless of the company, set out to settle their accounts. Such undertaking involves a massive East-West exchange of vendibles. Beorning bear rugs for phials of Elvish beverages. Jars of reptilian ointment for amulets to ward off grey pilgrims. Dwarvish oil lanterns for a crate of real shards of the true Narsil.

The evening grows into dark night, and the inn is progressively filled with travellers and regular patrons. Few of them have ever met a Dwarf, let alone a Halfling. And folks around these places know better than to be curious around people they have never met, so they mainly keep to themselves. Gytha manoeuvres amongst the tables at a frantic pace carrying bowls and cups, and generally lording over it all as though she owned the place. Which she does.

“Good heaven, Gytha!,” Sindri yells when she’s nearby. “This tea is _good_!

Gytha’s red face broadens in a grin. “My best tea for my best customers.”

“It’s not half bad,” Ricco admits as he takes in both the venue and the diners. “Considering.”

“What blend is it?” Sindri licks his whiskers. “Wait, don’t tell me. Hum… There’s a hint of citrus. Wily Wizard? Eorl Grey?”

Gytha shakes her head. “Lord of Lamedon.”

“Really? You got Lord of Lamedon tea?” Reggie’s eyes grow as round and sparkling as the coins she gave Éowyn earlier. “That’s damn hard to come by north of the White Mountains! How’d you get it?”

“The usual way. Travellers. A couple fishermen from the Eastemnet, they spent the night a couple weeks ago and offered to pay with a few ounces. I’d have said no, ’cept I was curious. Turned out to be the real stuff. Don’t know where they got it.”

The name echoes in Éowyn’s mind. _The Eastemnet. This tea came from the Eastemnet_. That’s Rohan. That’s her place. She sees the green rolling plains upon the red surface of the brew. And when she drinks it, it has a different taste.

It tastes like _home_.

A pang of longing darkens her disposition.

“Do you usually have people from as far as the Eastemnet?,” she asks.

“Not often,” Gytha answers. “But lately we get plenty of travellers from those parts, coming west in a hurry.”

“In quite a hurry they must be to get rid of this tea!,” Sindri blurts out.

“But what is the hurry about?,” Ricco inquires. “Are they fleeing from anything?”

“They fear the war in the East is about to start all over. They say…” Gytha leans over the table and whispers as if fearing someone might overhear. “They say the Black Riders are abroad.”

The unexpected mention jostles Éowyn out of her sullen apathy. “The— The Black Riders?”

Gytha nods emphatically. “People saw them. They saw them in a farm beyond the Great River. Doing evil things.”

“What kind of evil things?”

“The way I heard it… They were _tipping cows_.”

“Hah!,” Reggie snorts. “They can tip my oxen any day. Perhaps they’ll be able to afford their own food.”

“Come on now, Reg,” Sindri reproves her. “Don’t be daft.”

“You’re right. They could never tip them enough.”

The conversation goes on, yet Éowyn hears it not. _The Black Riders are abroad._ They’ve seen them. They’ve seen _him_. _No matter how far I run, he’ll always find me_.

The resolution strikes her with the sudden, harsh clarity of lightning. She has to return. She must go back to her land. She must go back to her love. Every intervening mile tugs painfully at her heart. She needs them as badly as she needs the very air she breathes.

But no, no! She can’t do that. Wasn’t it to run from them that she came hither? Éomer would have her dwelling in his hall every day of her life. And as for her _dwimmerlaik_ , he… Well, he _wouldn’t_. She’s beyond her land, beyond her love. There’s nowhere for her to return but the world of sorrow she has left.

Reality crushes her like a mound of rock. She feels entombed in life under a barrow of hopelessness.

_Oh, gods. Now what?_

“Now I’ll go to bed,” Sindri announces, draining his cup. “I’ll have an early start tomorrow. And…” His eyes seek the table near the entrance. “And I still have to sing a couple songs tonight. So, if you’ll excuse me…” It’s the last Éowyn hears of him that night. He leaps down the bench and with queer swaying motions paces towards the women, who beam and giggle at his approach.


End file.
